I think I feel rather differently about sympathy to what seems the normal view. I like just to feel it is there, but not always expressed.

As I make my slow pilgrimage through the world, a certain sense of beautiful mystery seems to gather and grow.

The moment that any life, however good, stifles you, you may be sure it isn't your real life.

There remain times when one can only endure. One lives on, one doesn't die, and the only thing that one can do, is to fill one's mind and time as far as possible with the concerns of other people. It doesn't bring immediate peace, but it brings the dawn nearer.

What a strange power the perception of beauty is! It seems to ebb and flow like some secret tide, independent alike of health and disease, of joy or sorrow. There are times in our lives when we seem to go singing on our way, and when the beauty of the world sets itself like a quiet harmony to the song we uplift.

I expect that all of us get pretty much what we deserve of appreciation.

Congenial labor is the secret of happiness.