“I could not become anything:
neither bad nor good, neither
a scoundrel nor an honest man,
neither a hero nor an insect. And
now I am eking out my days in my
corner, taunting myself with the
bitter and entirely useless
consolation that an intelligent
man cannot seriously become
anything; that only a fool can
become something.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky,
Notes from the Underground