"it is only through a wholesome discontent with things as they are, that we ever try to make them any better."

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I was oppressed with a sense of vague discontent and dissatisfaction with my own life, which was passing so quickly and uninterestingly, and I kept thinking it would be a good thing if I could tear my heart out of my breast, that heart which had grown so weary of life.

— Anton Chekhov