I know the compassion of others is a relief at first. I don't despise it. But it can't quench pain, it slips through your soul as through a sieve. And when our suffering has been dragged from one pity to another, as from one mouth to another, we can no longer respect or love it.

It is the perpetual dread of fear, the fear of fear, that shapes the face of a brave man.

Who are you to condemn another's sin? He who condemns sin becomes part of it, espouses it.

Little things seem nothing, but they give peace, like those meadow flowers which individually seem odorless but all together perfume the air.

God ordains that beggars should beg for greatness, as for all else, when greatness shines out of them, and they don't know it.

No one ever discovers the depths of his own loneliness.

What does the truth matter? Haven't we mothers all given our sons a taste for lies, lies which from the cradle upwards lull them, reassure them, send them to sleep: lies as soft and warm as a breast!