Are they people or are they not? Is there anything human about them? Some get slaughtered in the streets, while others sit at home and meekly wait their turn. And everyone is thinking, Let it be anyone but me. The cold-blooded brutality of those who slaughter, and the cold-blooded meekness of those who are slaughtered. The cold-bloodedness, that’s the worst thing. Ten people stand around, transfixed with horror, and meekly wait, while another one comes by, picks his victim, and cold-bloodedly slaughters him. These people’s souls are full of rot, and each hour of meek waiting contaminates them even more. This very moment, these silent houses are invisibly breeding rascals, informers, and murderers, thousands of people who will remain stricken by fear their whole lives, and who will mercilessly teach fear to their children and the children of their children. A little longer and I’ll go insane and become just like them; a little longer and I’ll no longer have any idea what I’m doing here. I need to rest, get away from all this, calm down . . .

Hard to be a God, Strugatsky Brothers