Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

There is a sort of pleasure in indulging of grief.

There is far too much talk of love and grief benumbing the faculties, turning the hair gray, and destroying a man's interest in his work. Grief has made many a man look younger.

Why not leave their private sorrows to people? Is sorrow not, one asks, the only thing in the world people really possess?

We were born to die; we were born to endure, on the way to death, sorrow-sorrow in manifold shapes.

Hope is incredible to the slave of grief.

It is our human lot, it is heaven's will, that sorrow follow joy.

Sorrows remembered sweeten present joy.

There is in this world in which everything wears out, everything perishes, one thing that crumbles into dust, that destroys itself still more completely, leaving behind still fewer traces of itself than Beauty: namely Grief.

We wasters of sorrows! How we stare away into sad endurance beyond them, trying to foresee their end! Whereas they are nothing else than our winter foliage, our sombre evergreen, one of the seasons of our interior year.