My old man once sent me this excerpt from Brothers Karamazov, imploring me to pull my finger out and get on with reading it. Many literary cats of high esteem call it the best book ever written.
In it, so I’ve gathered from blurbs, he consolidates all his philosophy and a lifetime of thought, blending the big themes from his other tomes, Crime and Punishment, The Idiot, The Possessed, Notes from Underground, this is his parting shot, the last book he wrote.
Much of earth is concealed from us, but in place of it we have been granted a secret, mysterious sense of our living bond with the other world, with the higher heavenly world, and the roots of our thoughts and feelings are not here but in other worlds. That is why philosophers say it is impossible on earth to conceive the essence of things. God took seeds from other worlds and sowed them on this earth, and raised up his
garden; and everything that could sprout sprouted, but it lives and grows only through its sense of being in touch with other mysterious worlds; if this sense is weakened or destroyed in you, that which has grown in you dies, then you become indifferent to life, and even come to hate it.