Charles Dickens. Bleak house (№ 411896)

The big light is small. Even in comparison with the world of people like us, however, which also has its limits (what you, Your Grace, make sure when, having traveled far and wide, you find yourself in front of a gaping void), the big light is just a tiny speck. There is a lot of good in it; many good, worthy people; he takes up the place he is meant to be. But all the evil is that this pampered world lives like in a case for jewelry, wrapped too tightly in soft fabrics and thin cloth, and therefore does not hear the noise of wider worlds, does not see how they revolve around the sun. This is a dying world, and its offspring are painful, because there is nothing to breathe in it.