Fyodor Dostoevsky. Idiot (№ 204358)

I positively knew that I had tuberculosis, and incurable; I have not deceived myself and understood the matter clearly. But the clearer I understood it, sudorozhnoe I wanted to live; I clung to life and wanted to live, come what may. I agree, what was I supposed to be mad at the dark and dull lot, ordered to crush me like a fly and, of course, not knowing why; but why I didn't come with one anger? Why I really started to live, knowing that I'm not allowed to start; tried, knowing that I have nothing to try?