I have no self-control:

I said to myself: if I didn't believe in life, if I lost faith in the woman I love, if I lost faith in the order of things, if I were convinced that everything was, on the contrary, a disorderly, damnable, and perhaps devil-ridden chaos, if I were completely overcome by all the horrors of man's disillusionment--I'd still want to live and, having once raised the cup to my lips, I wouldn't tear myself away from it till I had drained it to the dregs! However, I shall probably fling it away at thirty, even if I haven't emptied it, and turn away--where I don't know. But till I'm thirty, I know for certain that my youth will triumph over everything--every disappointment and every disgust with life.

Or

I shall get drunk on my own emotion. I love the sticky little leaves of spring and the blue sky--yes, I do! It's not a matter of intellect or logic. You love it all with your inside, with your belly.

And finally:

Half your work is done, Ivan: you love life. Now you must try to do the second half and you are saved.
So you're already saving me, though I may not be lost at all! And what does this second half of yours consist of?
Why, to raise up your dead who have perhaps never died at all. Well, let's have tea now...

Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, Vol. 1, 268-269. Penguin, 1958.