I have made this letter longer than usual, only because I have not had the time to make it shorter.

It is certain that those who have the living faith in their hearts see at once that all existence is none other than the work of the God whom they adore. But for those in whom this light is extinguished, [if we were to show them our proofs of the existence of God] nothing is more calculated to arouse their contempt. . . .

We never live, but we hope to live; and as we are always arranging to be happy, it must be that we never are so.

Chance gives rise to thoughts, and chance removes them; no art can keep or acquire them.

One has followed the other in an endless circle, for it is certain that as man's insight increases so he finds both wretchedness and greatness within himself. In a word man knows he is wretched. Thus he is wretched because he is so, but he is truly great because he knows it.

Man is equally incapable of seeing the nothingness from which he emerges and the infinity in which he is engulfed.

Time heals griefs and quarrels, for we change and are no longer the same persons. Neither the offender nor the offended are any more themselves.