In the same way, the most restless of travellers ends up pining for his homeland once again, and discovers in his cottage, in the arms of his wife and amidst his children, and in the labours that are necessary to support them, that joy he sought in vain in the wide world.
Nothing distresses me more than to see men torment each other; particularly when in the flower of their age, in the very season of pleasure, they waste their few short days of sunshine in quarrels and disputes, and only perceive their error when it is too late to repair it.
So all in their different fashions pursued their daily lives, thoughtfully or not; everything seemed to be following is usual course, as is the way in monstrously strange circumstances when everything is at stake: we go on with our lives as though nothing were the matter.
We are never content with portraits of people we know. For that reason I have always felt sorry for portrait painters. We rarely ask the impossible of anyone, but of them we do. They are required to get everybody’s relationship with the subject, everybody’s affection or dislike, into the picture; and not merely represent their own view of a person but what everybody else’s might be too.
No: ill-humour arises from an inward consciousness of our own want of merit, from a discontent which ever accompanies that envy which foolish vanity engenders.
For only to the extent that we empathize do we have the right to speak about a matter.
Must it be, that what makes for a man’s happiness becomes the source for his misery?
Saving Thy Gracious Presence, he to me A long-legged grasshopper appears to be, That springing flies, and flying springs, And in the grass the same old ditty sings. Would he still lay among the grass he grows in! Each bit of dung he seeks, to stick his nose in.
When we have lost ourselves, we have lost everything.
I see no end to my misery but the grave.
I often feel that way, I would like to open one of my veins, to bring me eternal freedom.
God knows, I often lie down to sleep with the desire, even sometimes the hope, not to wake up again.
Must it ever be thus – that the source of our happiness must also be the fountain of our misery?
I prefer an injurious truth to a useful error. Truth heals any pain it may inflict on us.
The source of all misery lies concealed within me, as the source of all happiness did formerly.
How many new discoveries does not a person make when on some high point he ascends but a single story higher.
There is no truer, warmer pleasure in this world than to behold a great soul opening up towards oneself.
Often do I strive to allay the burning fever of my blood; and you have never witnessed anything so unsteady, so uncertain, as my heart. But need I confess this to you, my dear friend, who have so often endured the anguish of witnessing my sudden transitions from sorrow to immoderate joy, and from sweet melancholy to violent passions? I treat my poor heart like a sick child, and gratify its every fancy. Do not mention this again: there are people who would censure me for it.
Since I have been obliged to associate continually with other people, and observe what they do, and how they employ themselves, I have become far better satisfied with myself.
Must we go tinkering about with Nature before we can enjoy it?