, when my sentence is out and my days numbered! How can morality have need of my last breaths, and why should I die listening to the consolations offered by the prince, who, without doubt, would not omit to demonstrate that death is actually a benefactor to me? (Christians like him always end up with that⁠—it is their pet theory.) And what do they want with their ridiculous ‘Pavlofsk trees’? To sweeten my last hours? Cannot they understand that the more I forget myself, the more I let myself become attached to these last illusions of life and love, by means of which they try to hide from me Meyer’s wall, and all that is so plainly written on it⁠—the more unhappy they make me? What is the use of all your nature to me⁠—all your parks and trees, your sunsets and sunrises, your blue skies and your self-satisfied faces⁠—when all this wealth of beauty and happiness begins with the fact that it accounts me⁠—only me⁠—one too many!