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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
World
Baked
Inhabitants
January
Apples
Worship
Less
Next
Pelt
Like
Naples

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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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Old age is not one of the beauties of creation, but it is one of its harmonies.
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Friendship is like those ancient altars where the unhappy, and even the guilty, found a sure asylum.
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What is resignation? It is putting God between one's self and one's grief.
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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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He who has ceased to enjoy his friend's superiority has ceased to love him.
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True poets, like great artists, have scarcely any childhood, and no old age.
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Time is the shower of Danae each drop is golden.
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Indulgence is lovely in the sinless toleration, adorable in the pious and believing heart.
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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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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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If grief is to be mitigated, it must either wear itself out or be shared.
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