The greater the artist, the greater the doubt. Perfect confidence is granted to the less talented as a consolation prize.
It is from books that wise people derive consolation in the troubles of life.
I am a most noteworthy sinner, but I have cried out to the Lord for grace and mercy, and they have covered me completely. I have found the sweetest consolation since I made it my whole purpose to enjoy His marvellous Presence.
It is a great consolation for me to remember that the Lord, to whom I had drawn near in humble and child-like faith, has suffered and died for me, and that He will look on me in love and compassion.
Unless we form the habit of going to the Bible in bright moments as well as in trouble, we cannot fully respond to its consolations because we lack equilibrium between light and darkness.
I have the consolation of having added nothing to my private fortune during my public service, and of retiring with hands clean as they are empty.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
Every man, either to his terror or consolation, has some sense of religion.
There is one consolation in being sick; and that is the possibility that you may recover to a better state than you were ever in before.
The greater the artist, the greater the doubt.
It seems to be the fate of man to seek all his consolations in futurity.
It is one of the consolations of philosophy that the benefit of showing how to dispense with a concept does not hinge on dispensing with it.
There is in us a lyric germ or nucleus which deserves respect; it bids a man to ponder or create; and in this dim corner of himself he can take refuge and find consolations which the society of his fellow creatures does not provide.
For those who live neither with religious consolations about death nor with a sense of death (or of anything else) as natural, death is the obscene mystery, the ultimate affront, the thing that cannot be controlled. It can only be denied.
Those we love don't go away, they sit beside us every day.
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
In our sad condition our only consolation is the expectancy of another life. Here below all is incomprehensible.
Quiet and sincere sympathy is often the most welcome and efficient consolation to the afflicted. Said a wise man to one in deep sorrow, I did not come to comfort you; God only can do that; but I did come to say how deeply and tenderly I feel for you in your affliction.
In default of inexhaustible happiness, eternal suffering would at least give us a destiny. But we do not even have that consolation, and our worst agonies come to an end one day.
That is the consolation of a little mind; you have the fun of changing it without impeding the progress of mankind.
When the soul drifts uncertainly between life and the dream, between the mind's disorder and the return to cool reflection, it is in religious thought that we should seek consolation.
When you're in the muck you can only see muck. If you somehow manage to float above it, you still see the muck but you see it from a different perspective. And you see other things too. That's the consolation of philosophy.
I picked up the writing on the very day he died. It was the only consolation I could find.
The Bible was a consolation to a fellow alone in the old cell. The lovely thin paper with a bit of matress stuffing in it, if you could get a match, was as good a smoke as I ever tasted.
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