Time, like money, is measured by our needs.

We are contented with our day when we have been able to bear our grief in silence, and act as if we were not suffering.

Certainly the determining acts of her life were not ideally beautiful. They were the mixed result of young and novel impulse struggling amidst the conditions of an imperfect social state, in which great feelings will often take the aspect of error, and great faith the aspect of illusion.

I am not resigned: I am not sure life is long enough to learn that lesson.

It's well known there's always two sides, if no more.

Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then, with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.

But human experience is usually paradoxical, that means incongruous with the phrases of current talk or even current philosophy.