“I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness—a real, thorough illness. For man’s everyday needs, ordinary human consciousness would be more than enough, but no, we must have this hyper-awareness, this cursed ability to feel every crack in our souls. I’d trade it all for stupidity, for peace! I envy the man who can live without thinking, who doesn’t lie awake gnawing at himself. But me? I dissect every thought, every shame, until I’m sick with it. And yet—I wouldn’t give it up. It’s my curse, my pride, my everything.”

– Fyodor Dostoevsky, Notes from Underground

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