Warmth, warmth, more warmth! For we are dying of cold and not of darkness. It is not the night that kills, but the frost.
Send
Warmth, warmth, more warmth! For we are dying of cold and not of darkness. It is not the night that kills, but the frost.
My eyes were glued on life and they were full of tears.
Some years ago, when the images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer and heard the rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death?
Being in the depths of sadness is just as important an experience as being exuberantly happy.
I don't want expensive gifts; I don't want to be bought. I have everything I want. I just want someone to be there for me, to make me feel safe and secure.
Never succumb to the temptation of bitterness.
He does not weep who does not see.
I don't want to be alone, I want to be left alone.
Nothing, I am sure, calls forth the faculties so much as the being obliged to struggle with the world.
Unhappiness is selfish, grief is selfish. For whom are the tears?