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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.

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
Great
Masters
Way
Sacrifice
Completes
Ways
Sacrifices
Lasts
Friday
Last
Justification
Christian
Master
Death
Touch
Ends
Picture

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Travel is the frivolous part of serious lives, and the serious part of frivolous ones.
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The very might of the human intellect reveals its limits.
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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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A malicious enemy is better than a clumsy friend.
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Our faults afflict us more than our good deeds console. Pain is ever uppermost in the conscience as in the heart.
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Men are always invoking justice yet it is justice which should make them tremble.
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Youth should be a savings bank.
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If grief is to be mitigated, it must either wear itself out or be shared.
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Men do not go out to meet misfortune as we do. They learn it and we--we divine it.
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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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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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Piety softens all that courage bears.
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What is resignation? It is putting God between one's self and one's grief.
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Let us shun everything, which might tend to efface the primitive lineaments of our individuality. Let us reflect that each one of us is a thought of God.
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We are often prophets to others only because we are our own historians.
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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?
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All the joys of earth will not assuage our thirst for happiness while a single grief suffices to shroud life in a sombre veil, and smite it with nothingness at all points.
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In retirement, the passage of time seems accelerated. Nothing warns us of its flight. It is a wave which never murmurs, because there is no obstacle to its flow.
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Resignation is, to some extent, spoiled for me by the fact that it is so entirely conformable to the laws of common-sense. I should like just a little more of the supernatural in the practice of my favorite virtue.
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Love sometimes elevates, creates new qualities, suspends the working of evil inclinations but only for a day. Love, then, is an Oriental despot, whose glance lifts a slave from the dust, and then consigns him to it again.
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