...I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me.
[...]
I might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll to play with, give me a cup of tea with sugar in it, and maybe I should be appeased. I might even be genuinely touched, though probably I should grind my teeth at myself afterwards and lie awake at night with shame for months after. That was my way.
Notes from the Underground. Fyodor Dostoyevsky.
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