 | Reminiscences of Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy |  |
IX
He reminds me of those pilgrims who all their life long, stick in hand, walk the earth, traveling thousands of miles from one monastery to another, from one saint's relics to another, terribly homeless and alien to all men and things. The world is not for them, nor God either. They pray to him from habit, and in their secret soul they hate him — why does he drive them over the earth, from one end to the other? What for? People are stumps, roots, stones on the path, one stumbles over them, and sometimes is hurt by them. One can do without them, but it is pleasant sometimes to surprise a man with one's own unlikeness to him, to show one's difference from him.
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| Reminiscences of Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy | |