Your Morning Fyodor
For Friday, June 20th, 2025
Week 119 of our regular morning feature here at Friedman of the Plains Worldwide in which we highlight the great words and works of great men and women, as well as those who are insufferable, delusional, and even fictional.
This Week Fyodor Dostoevsky
“For, after all, you do grow up, you do outgrow your ideals, which turn to dust and ashes, which are shattered into fragments; and if you have no other life, you just have to build one up out of these fragments. And all the time your soul is craving and longing for something else. And in vain does the dreamer rummage about in his old dreams, raking them over as though they were a heap of cinders, looking in these cinders for some spark, however tiny, to fan it into a flame so as to warm his chilled blood by it and revive in it all that he held so dear before, all that touched his heart, that made his blood course through his veins, that drew tears from his eyes, and that so splendidly deceived him!” — White Night and Other Stories
Idealism is the opposite of a state of grace; it's a pit into which a thinking person is forced to descend when public policy is led by flat-Earth freebooters, often people with seemingly high IQs admired by their J-C voodoo communities who, in their pre-orgasmic glee, rush down the path to failure thinking, in the words of the song from Mack & Mabel, "Maybe this time ... I'll get lucky ... Maybe this time ... I'll win." The reluctant idealist, torn away from imaginings of future carnal bliss, is forced to be the adult in the room while still only a child. I think Dostoevsky and Salinger would have gotten along very well.
Beautiful and perfect, Ba.