No heroine can create a hero through love of one, but she can give birth to one
Man has here two and a half minutes-one to smile, one to sigh, and a half to love: for in the midst of this minute he dies.
Each departed friend is a magnet that attracts us to the next world.
How narrow our souls become when absorbed in any present good or ill! It is only the thought of the future that makes them great.
It is not great, but little good-haps that make up happiness.
Sorrows are like thunderclouds, in the distance they look black, over our heads scarcely gray.