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He had all sorts of sayings to cheer himself up with: ‘No man can be an exile if he remembers that all the world is one city’, and ‘Everything is as good or bad as our opinion makes it’. But I think what really kept him cheerful was his inquisitiveness.
It was the hardest work I’d ever done, and, while it lasted, one could think of nothing else. I said not long before that work and weakness are comforters. But sweat is the kindest creature of the three—far better than philosophy, as a cure for ill thoughts.
It was as bitter a truth as I’d ever tasted, but I drank it.
A love like that can grow to be nine-tenths hatred and still call itself love.
There must, whether the gods see it or not, be something great in the mortal soul. For suffering, it seems, is infinite, and our capacity without limit.
‘Child, to say the very thing you really mean, the whole of it, nothing more or less or other than what you really mean; that’s the whole art and joy of words.’
