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We are all of us, in this world, more or less like St. January, whom the inhabitants of Naples worship one day, and pelt with baked apples the next.

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
January
Apples
Worship
Less
Next
Pelt
Like
Naples
World
Baked
Inhabitants

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If we look closely at this earth, where God seems so utterly forgotten, we shall find that it is He, after all, who commands the most fidelity and the most love.
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Suspicion has its dupes, as well as credulity.
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There are words which are worth as much as the best actions, for they contain the germ of them all.
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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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To have ideas is to gather flowers to think is to weave them into garlands.
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Pride dries the tears of anger and vexation humility, those of grief. The one is indignant that we should suffer the other calms us by the reminder that we deserve nothing else.
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The best advice on the art of being happy is about as easy to follow as advice to be well when one is sick.
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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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Attention is a silent and perpetual flattery.
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Happiness and Virtue clasp hands and walk together.
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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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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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If grief is to be mitigated, it must either wear itself out or be shared.
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Kindness causes us to learn, and to forget, many things.
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I love victory, but I love not triumph.
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What I value most next to eternity is time.
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By becoming unhappy, we sometimes learn how to be less so.
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The symptoms of compassion and benevolence, in some people, are like those minute guns which warn you that you are in deadly peril.
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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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