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Might we not say to the confused voices which sometimes arise from the depths of our being: Ladies, be so kind as to speak only four at a time?

Sophie Swetchine

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Sophie Swetchine
Age: 74 †
Born: 1782
Born: November 22
Died: 1857
Died: September 10
Diarist
Lady-In-Waiting
Salonnière
Writer
Moscow
Russian SFSR
Sofia Petrovna Soymonova
Madame Swetchine
Swetchine
Anne Sophie Swetchine
Speak
Ladies
Might
Insanity
Sometimes
Voices
Kind
Confused
Time
Arise
Depth
Four
Voice
Depths

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The most culpable of the excesses of Liberty is the harm she does herself.
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True poets, like great artists, have scarcely any childhood, and no old age.
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There are but two future verbs which man may appropriate confidently and without pride: I shall suffer, and I shall die.
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Respect is a serious thing in him who feels it, and the height of honor for him who inspires the feeling.
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When any one tells you that he belongs to no party, you may at any rate be sure that he does not belong to yours.
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Youth should be a savings bank.
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By becoming unhappy, we sometimes learn how to be less so.
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Death is the justification of all the ways of the Christian, the last end of all his sacrifices, the touch of the Great Master which completes the picture.
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There is nothing steadfast in life but our memories. We are sure of keeping intact only that which we have lost.
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To have ideas is to gather flowers to think is to weave them into garlands.
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The very might of the human intellect reveals its limits.
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Men are always invoking justice yet it is justice which should make them tremble.
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Life grows darker as we go on, till only one pure light is left shining on it and that is faith. Old age, like solitude and sorrow, has its revelations.
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Attention is a silent and perpetual flattery.
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Let us not fail to scatter along our pathway the seeds of kindness and sympathy. Some of them will doubtless perish but if one only lives, it will perfume our steps and rejoice our eyes.
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We do not judge men by what they are in themselves, but by what they are relatively to us.
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Old age is not one of the beauties of creation, but it is one of its harmonies.
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Indifferent souls never part. Impassioned souls part, and return to one another, because they can do no better.
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Real sorrow is almost as difficult to discover as real poverty. An instinctive delicacy hides the rays of the one and the wounds of the other.
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It would seem that by our sorrows only are we called to a knowledge of the Infinite. Are we happy? The limits of life constrain us on all sides.
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