Night brings our troubles to the light, rather than banishes them.

Light is that grief which counsel can allay.

Lack of desire is the greatest riches.

War I abhor, and yet how sweet The sound along the marching street Of drum and fife, and I forget Wet eyes of widows, and forget Broken old mothers, and the whole Dark butchery without a soul.

What's the good of dragging up sufferings which are over, of being unhappy now just because you were then.

No choice maxims - we Stoics don't practice that kind of window dressing.

People do not die - they kill themselves.