There would be far less suffering amongst mankind, if men—and God knows why they are so fashioned—did not employ their imaginations so assiduously in recalling the memory of past sorrow, instead of bearing their present lot with equanimity.
There is sorrow in the world, but goodness too; and goodness that is not greenness, either, no more than sorrow is.
There is a strange charm in the thoughts of a good legacy, or the hopes of an estate, which wondrously alleviates the sorrow that men would otherwise feel for the death of friends.
Pure and complete sorrow is as impossible as pure and complete joy.[Но чистая, полная печаль также невозможна, как чистая и полная радость.]
When you compare the sorrows of real life to the pleasures of the imaginary one, you will never want to live again, only to dream forever.
There are moments when I wish I could roll back the clock and take all the sadness away, but I have the feeling that if I did, the joy would be gone as well.
The gods themselves are not for ever glad. The ineffaceable, sad birth-mark in the brow of man, is but the stamp of sorrow in the signers.
That’s simple. They are the prisoners of their personal history. Everyone believes that the main aim in life is to follow a plan. They never ask if that plan is theirs or if it was created by another person. They accumulate experiences, memories, things, other people’s ideas, and it is more than they can possibly cope with. And that is why they forget their dreams.[Esther asks why people are sad.]