randorr

The Dream Of a Ridiculous Man by Fyodor Dostoevsky

I am a ridiculous person. Now they call me a madman. That
would be a promotion if it were not that I remain as
ridiculous in their eyes as before. But now I do not resent it,
they are all dear to me now, even when they laugh at me -
and, indeed, it is just then that they are particularly dear to
me. I could join in their laughter - not exactly at myself, but
through affection for them, if I did not feel so sad as I look at
them. Sad because they do not know the truth and I do know
it. Oh, how hard it is to be the only one who knows the
truth! But they won't understand that. No, they won't
understand it.