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Автор: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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"But why am I going on like this?" he continued, sitting up
again, as it were in profound amazement. "I knew that I could
never bring myself to it, so what have I been torturing myself
for till now? Yesterday, yesterday, when I went to make that...
experiment, yesterday I realised completely that I could never
bear to do it.... Why am I going over it again, then? Why am I
hesitating? As I came down the stairs yesterday, I said myself
that it was base, loathsome, vile, vile... the very thought of it
made me feel sick and filled me with horror.
"No, I couldn't do it, I couldn't do it! Granted, granted that
there is no flaw in all that reasoning, that all that I have
concluded this last month is clear as day, true as arithmetic....
My God! Anyway I couldn't bring myself to it! I couldn't do it, I
couldn't do it! Why, why then am I still...?"

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