The same is true of a disordered life." "That isn't right, papa!" said Lubov, softly.
"What do you mean by--not right ?" "Writers are the most unselfish people, they are noble personalities! They don't want anything--all they strive for is justice--truth! They're not mosquitoes." Lubov grew excited as she lauded her beloved people; her face was flushed, and her eyes looked at her father with so much feeling, as though imploring him to believe her, being unable to convince him.
"Eh, you!" said the old man, with a sigh, interrupting her.

"You've read too much! You've been poisoned! Tell me--who are they?
No one knows! That Yozhov--what is he?
Only God knows.

All they want is the truth, you say?
What modest people they are! And suppose truth is the very dearest thing there is?
Perhaps everybody is seeking it in silence?
Believe me--man cannot be unselfish.

Man will not fight for what belongs not to him, and if he does fight--his name is 'fool,' and he is of no use to anybody.

A man must be able to stand up for himself, for his own, then will he attain something! Here you have it! Truth! Here I have been reading the same newspaper for almost forty years, and I can see well--here is my face before you, and before me, there on the samovar is again my face, but it is another face.