“The path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.”

The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.

Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.

Books are not seldom talismans and spells.

Ceremony leads her bigots forth, prepared to fight for shadows of no worth.

I am out of humanity’s reach.I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speech;I start at the sound of my own.

Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.

While truths, on which eternal things depend, can hardly find a single friend.

Pleasure admitted in undue degree, enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour;

Thus happiness depends, as nature shows, less on exterior things than most suppose.

Time, as he passes us, has a dove’s wing, Unsoil’d, and swift, and of a silken sound.

Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume; And we are weeds without it.

Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have oft-times no connection.

Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.

Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e’en in age, and at our latest day.

Tea – the cups that cheer but not inebriate.

Black is not sad. Bright colours are what depress me. They’re so empty. Black is poetic. How do you imagine a poet? In a bright yellow jacket? Probably not.

Without this sadness I wouldn’t even know who I am.

Now my ability to notice things and respond to things and be here is far more profound. With that comes happiness, with it comes sadness, but it’s a beautiful life.

There’s a sadness to all kinds of music if you want to hear it. There’s also happiness to it if you want to hear it.

Depression is the way my eyes have learnt how to close more than open.

Sometimes the impact of Mozart’s music is so immediate that the vision in the mind remains blurred and incomplete, while the soul seems to be directly invaded, drenched in wave upon wave of melancholy.

I felt a tremendous sadness for men who can’t deal with a woman of their own age.

Perhaps the saddest irony of depression is that suicide happens when the patient gets a little better and can again function sufficiently.