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作者: Fyodor Dostoevsky

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"There is some truth in your observation," the latter replied.
"In that sense we are certainly all not infrequently like madmen,
but with the slight difference that the deranged are somewhat
madder, for we must draw a line. A normal man, it is true, hardly
exists. Among dozens--perhaps hundreds of thousands--hardly one
is to be met with."
At the word "madman," carelessly dropped by Zossimov in his
chatter on his favourite subject, everyone frowned.
Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in thought
with a strange smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on
something.
"Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!"
Razumihin cried hastily.

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