Men recognize that in their lives something is wrong, and that something needs improving. Man is able to improve only that one thing which is in his power: himself. But in order to improve oneself one must first of all recognize one’s own deficiencies, and this one does not desire to do. Leo Tolstoy (1828 – 1910)
Why do the people behave so unreasonably? Because, from long continued deception, they no longer see the connection between their bondage and their own share in the deeds of violence. And why don’t they see this connection? For the same reason which lies at the root of all human misery — because they have no faith, and without faith men […]
Human anguish is the product of the loss by man of his true identity. Antoine de Saint-Exupery (1900 – 1944)
Rich, only to be wretched, thy great fortunes Are made thy chief afflictions. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
Nothing is more disgusting than the majority: it consists of a few powerful predecessors, of rogues who adapt themselves, of weak who assimilate themselves, and the masses who imitate without knowing at all what they want. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 – 1832)
I have often been irritated, though it would be comic if the consequences were not so awful, by observing how men shut one another in a delusion and cannot get out of this magic circle. Leo Tolstoy (1828 – 1910)
How much trouble he avoids who does not look to see what his neighbour says or does or thinks, but only what he does himself, that it may be just and pure. Marcus Aurelius (121 – 180)
We should not act and speak as if we were asleep. Marcus Aurelius (121 – 180)
If you are pained by any external thing, it is not this thing that disturbs you, but your own judgment about it. It is in your power to erase this judgment now. If anything in your own nature gives you pain, who hinders you from correcting your opinion? Marcus Aurelius (121 – 180)
All yesterday I was spinning, Sitting alone in the sun; And the dream that I spun was so lengthy, It lasted till day was done… I went up the hill this morning To the place where my spinning lay — There was nothing but glistening dewdrops Remained of my dream to-day. Adelaide Anne Procter (1825 – 1864)
