In the end, you feel that your much-vaunted, inexhaustible fantasy
is growing tired, debilitated, exhausted, because you're bound to
grow out of your old ideals; they're smashed to splinters and turn
to dust, and if you have no other life, you have no choice but to
keep rebuilding your dreams from the splinters and dust. But the heart
longs for something different! And it is vain to dig in the ashes
of your old fancies, trying to find even a tiny spark to fan into
a new flame that will warm the chilled heart and bring back to life
everything that can send the blood rushing wildly through the body,
fill the eyes with tears--everything that can delude you so well!
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights