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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
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Pelt
Like
Naples
World
Baked
Inhabitants
January
Apples
Worship
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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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Attention is a silent and perpetual flattery.
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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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The chains which cramp us most are those which weigh on us least.
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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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True poets, like great artists, have scarcely any childhood, and no old age.
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Indulgence is lovely in the sinless toleration, adorable in the pious and believing heart.
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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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If grief is to be mitigated, it must either wear itself out or be shared.
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Suspicion has its dupes, as well as credulity.
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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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Indifferent souls never part. Impassioned souls part, and return to one another, because they can do no better.
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Silence is like nightfall. Objects are lost in it insensibly.
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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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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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Piety softens all that courage bears.
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We recognize the action of God in great things: we exclude it in small. We forget that the Lord of eternity is also the Lord of the hour.
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He who has ceased to enjoy his friend's superiority has ceased to love him.
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To have ideas is to gather flowers to think is to weave them into garlands.
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