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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.

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
Forgotten
Shall
Seems
Commands
Earth
Fidelity
Find
Closely
Look
Utterly
Looks
Command
Love
God

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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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If grief is to be mitigated, it must either wear itself out or be shared.
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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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Suspicion has its dupes, as well as credulity.
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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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Happiness and Virtue clasp hands and walk together.
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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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Silence is like nightfall. Objects are lost in it insensibly.
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We expect everything and are prepared for nothing.
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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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The chains which cramp us most are those which weigh on us least.
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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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The Christian's God is a God of metamorphoses. You cast grief into his bosom: you draw thence, peace. You cast in despair: 'tis hope that rises to the surface. It is a sinner whose heart he moves. It is a saint who returns him thanks.
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Old age is the night of life, as night is the old age of the day. Still, night is full of magnificence and, for many, it is more brilliant than the day.
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Attention is a silent and perpetual flattery.
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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.
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When fresh sorrows have caused us to take some steps in the right way, we may not complain. We have invested in a life annuity, but the income remains.
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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.
Sophie Swetchine