Regarding Love's Place In Life

S. S. Knight, Human Life, 1910, ch, vii., Love, pp. 156-8:

It is owing to the fact that we cannot enjoy anything to the fullest extent alone, since our nature is so constituted that we must have company in our pleasures, that friends are indispensable. Cicero realized this over two thousand years ago when he said that, “The fruit of talent, and worth, and every excellence, is gathered most fully when it is bestowed upon every one most nearly connected with us.” Appreciating this, nature has given us the love and friendship of parents in our childhood; of the companions of our youth as we grow older; of our life-partner at a later period, and last, the love of our children and grandchildren, so that, by an interest in their lives, we may become ourselves rejuvenated. In this, as in everything else of a physical or mental character, we start at the bottom, and, by a crescendo movement, reach the acme of the condition which with age diminishes, but in this instance the quality does not deteriorate. Our likelihood of forming acquaintances and friends in later years is very much less than in youth, and, certainly, with our habits and idiosyncrasies established, as they are after middle age, the possibility of forming intimate friendships is very much decreased. In childhood and youth, we are more imaginative and less practical, and, consequently, our inclinations in the line of friendships will be more natural and less influenced by considerations alien to friendship itself. Nothing can be more true than the axiom of Cicero, “Friendship does not follow upon advantage, but advantage upon friendship.” Clearly demonstrated as this is, but few people seem to realize it. For the fundamental truth at the bottom of this matter is, as he further states, “the basis of that steadfastness and constancy which we seek in friendship is sincerity. For nothing is enduring which is insincere.”

The Judgment of Enlightened Peoples

Friedrich Nietzsche, Unpublished Fragments From the Period of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, tr. Paul S. Loeb and David F. Tinsley, Spring 1884, §25 [67]:

Enlightened peoples are worse judges of people and things: the cause of this is their présomption.

Serendipity

Leo A. Goodman, Notes on the Etymology of Serendipity and Some Related Philological Observations, in: Modern Language Notes, Vol. 76, No. 5 (May, 1961), p. 457:

The adventure of the three princes of Serendip, as described in the English version or in the De Mailli rendering and as referred to in Walpole's letter of 1754, the corresponding events in Voltaire's novel and in the Talmudic tale, the instance of Lord Shaftsbury's «accidental sagacity» described in Walpole's letter, all would suggest a meaning for Walpole's serendipity somewhat different from what now appears to be its present usage. E. Solly's definition in 1880, «looking for one thing and finding another,» is also somewhat different from present usage. At present serendipity usually means «the knack of spotting and exploiting good things encountered accidentally while searching for something else,» exemplified by «research directed toward the test of one hypothesis [yielding] a fortuitous b-product, an unexpected observation which bears upon theories not in question when the research was begun.»

The Vulgar

Friedrich von Schiller, from his Preface to the first edition of The Robbers, 1781:

The vulgar—among whom I would not be understood to mean merely the rabble—the vulgar, I say (between ourselves), extend their influence far around, and unfortunately—set the fashion. . . . Let as many friends of truth as you will, instruct their fellow-citizens in the pulpit and on the stage, the vulgar will never cease to be vulgar, though the sun and the moon may change their course, and «heaven and earth wax old as a garment».

Hiding The Shameful

Isocrates, Orations, To Demonicus, 15-16 (tr. Geroge Norlin):

Whatever is shameful to do you must not consider it honourable even to mention. Accustom yourself to be, not of a stern, but of a thoughtful, mien; for through the former you will be thought self-willed, through the latter, intelligent. Consider that no adornment so becomes you as modesty, justice, and self-control; for these are the virtues by which, as all men are agreed, the character of the young is held in restraint.

Never hope to conceal any shameful thing which you have done; for even if you do conceal it from others, your own heart will know.

Knowing One's Limits

Nicolas de Chamfort, tr. William G. Hutchison, in: The Cynic's Breviary, 1902:

“Are you not ashamed to wish to speak better than you can?” said Seneca to one of his sons who could not work out the exordium of an oration he was composing. One might say the same to those who adopt principles stronger than their character will bear. “Are you not ashamed of wishing to be more of a philosopher than you can be?”

Society, Nature, And Books Of Natural History

Henry David Thoreau, Journal, 1841, December 31:

In society you will not find health, but in nature. You must converse much with the field and woods, if you would imbibe such health into your mind and spirit as you covet for your body. Society is always diseased, and the best is the sickest. There is no scent in it so wholesome as that of the pines, nor any fragrance so penetrating and restorative as that of everlasting in high pastures. Without that our feet at least stood in the midst of nature, all our faces would be pale and livid. 

I should like to keep some book of natural history always by me as a sort of elixir, the reading of which would restore the tone of my system and secure me true and cheerful views of life. For to the sick, nature is sick, but to the well, a fountain of health. To the soul that contemplates some trait of natural beauty no harm nor disappointment can come. The doctrines of despair, of spiritual or political servitude, no priestcraft nor tyranny, was ever [sic] taught by such as drank in the harmony of nature.

Two Kinds Of Nakedness

Philo of Alexandria, Questions and Answers on Genesis, bk. II., 69 (tr. C. D. Yonge):

This is praise of the wise man both in the literal sense of the words, and also in their hidden meaning, that his exhibition of nakedness took place not out of doors but in his house, being concealed by the roof and walls of his house.  For the nakedness of the body is concealed by a house which is made of stones and beams of wood; but the covering and clothing of the soul is the discipline of wisdom.  Therefore there are two kinds of nakedness, one which takes place by accident, which is the result of an involuntary offence, because the just man, using, if I may say so, his honesty as if it were a garment with which he is clothed, stumbles out of his own accord like men who are intoxicated, or who are afflicted with insanity.  For in such men their offences are not deliberately committed; but it is his task and pleasing duty to clothe himself, as with a garment, with the discipline and honesty of study.

There is also another kind of nakedness of the soul which is caused by perfect virtue, which expels from itself the whole carnal weight of the body, as if it were flying from a tomb, as indeed it has long been buried in it as in a tomb.  As also it avoids pleasures, and also a great number of miseries arising from the different passions and many anxieties arising from misfortunes, and indeed all the evil effects of these different circumstances.  He, therefore, who has been able with distinction to pass through such various and great dangers, and to escape such injuries, and to emancipate himself from such evils, has attained to the destiny of happiness, without any stain or disgrace.  For I should pronounce this to be the ornament and badge of beauty in those individuals who have been rendered worthy to pass their existence in an incorporeal manner.

See also Ralph Marcus' fine transaltion.  

Claimed Pleasures Of Idleness

George Borrow, Lavengro, chapter XIV:

I have heard talk of the pleasures of idleness, yet it is my own firm belief that no one ever yet took pleasure in it. Mere idleness is the most disagreeable state of existence, and both mind and body are continually making efforts to escape from it. It has been said that idleness is the parent of mischief, which is very true; but mischief itself is merely an attempt to escape from the dreary vacuum of idleness. There are many tasks and occupations which a man is unwilling to perform, but let no one think that he is therefore in love with idleness; he turns to something which is more agreeable to his inclination, and doubtless more suited to his nature; but he is not in love with idleness. A boy may play the truant from school because he dislikes books and study; but, depend upon it, he intends doing something the while—to go fishing, or perhaps to take a walk; and who knows but that from such excursions both his mind and body may derive more benefit than from books and school?

That For Love Nothing Is Impossible

Maximus Tyrius, The Dissertations, tr. Thomas Taylor, vol. I., (London, 1804), Dissertation X., p. 103:

For love alone of every thing pertaining to men, when it subsists with purity, neither admires wealth, nor dreads a tyrant, nor is astonished by empire, nor avoids a court of judicature, nor flies from death. It does not consider as dire either wild beasts, or fire, or a precipice, or the sea, or a sword, or a halter; but to it things impervious are most pervious, things dire are most easily vanquished, things terrible are most readily encountered, and things difficult are most speedily accomplished. All rivers are passable, tempests most navigable, mountains most easily run over. It is everywhere confident, despises all things, and subdues all things. To love, when love is of this kind, is a thing of great worth. I indeed think that the man of intellect will pray never to be liberated from such love as this, if it is at the same time attended with liberty, intrepidity, and an immunity from guilt.

Fallen Angel

Otto von Bismarck, quoted in: Emil Ludwig, Bismarck; The Story of a Fighter, (Blue Ribbon Books, 1927, reprinted 1934), tr. Eden and Cedar Paul, p. 67:

That which is imposing here on earth . . . is always akin to the fallen angel; who is beautiful, but lacks peace; is great in his plans and efforts, but never succeeds; is proud, and melancholy.

When Gloom Is Incurable

William Cowper, The Shrubbery, Written in a Time of Affliction:

        O happy shades! to me unblest!
          Friendly to peace, but not to me!
        How ill the scene that offers rest,
          And heart that cannot rest, agree!

        This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
          Those alders quivering to the breeze,
        Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
          And please, if anything could please.

        But fixed unalterable Care
          Foregoes not what she feels within,
        Shows the same sadness everywhere,
          And slights the season and the scene.

        For all that pleased in wood or lawn,
          While Peace possessed these silent bowers,
        Her animating smile withdrawn,
          Has lost its beauties and its powers.

        The saint or moralist should tread
          This moss-grown alley, musing, slow;
        They seek like me the secret shade,
          But not, like me, to nourish woe!

        Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
          Alike admonish not to roam;
        These tell me of enjoyments past,
          And those of sorrows yet to come.

Losing The Tragic And Gaining Despair

Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or, pt. I., tr. Hans Hong and Edna Hong, (Princeton, 1987), The Tragic in Ancient Drama Reflected in the Tragic in Modern Drama, p. 145:

. . . when the age loses the tragic, it gains despair. In the tragic there is implicit a sadness and a healing that one indeed must not disdain, and when someone wishes to gain himself in the superhuman way our age tries to do it, he loses himself and becomes comic. Every individual, however original he is, is still a child of God, of his age, of his nation, of his family, of his friends, and only in them does he have his truth. If he wants to be the absolute in all this, his relativity, then he becomes ludicrous. In languages, there is sometimes found a word that because of its context is so frequently used in a specific case that it eventually becomes, if you please, independent as an adverb in this case. For the experts such a word has once and for all an accent and a flaw that it never lives down; if, then, this notwithstanding, it should claim to be a substantive and demand to be declined in all five cases, it would be genuinely comic. So it goes with the individual also when he, perhaps extracted from the womb of time laboriously enough, wants to be absolute in this enormous relativity. But if he surrenders this claim, is willing to be relative, then he eo ipso has the tragic, even if he were the happiest individual—indeed, I would say the individual is not happy until he has the tragic.

Visions Of Eighteen

From a letter by Thomas Carlyle to Baillie/Jane Welsh, letter 101, 2 September, 1824:

The visions of eighteen are beautiful as the path of Aurora; but transient and baseless as they are beautiful. A little while and the glories of the East are clean gone; and after all, what matters it so much whether one fell gust of tempest or the silent march of the Hours have chased them away?

Amanda

James Thomson, The Four Seasons, Spring:

        And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my song!
        Form'd by the Graces, loveliness itself!
        Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet,
        Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul,
        Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd,
        Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart:
        Oh, come! and while the rosy-footed May
        Steals blushing on, together let us tread
        The morning dews, and gather in their prime
        Fresh-blooming flowers, to grace thy braided hair,
        And thy loved bosom that improves their sweets.

Dispelling Sorrow

Al-Kindī, Philosophical Works of al-Kindī, tr. Peter Adamson and Peter Pormann, (Oxford, 2012), sect. 4, Ethics, Letter on the Method of how to Dispel Sorrows, pp. 254-5:

We should not content ourselves with being the most ignorant, most boorish, and most unjust people. Even if sadness were something necessary, then there would be sufficient sadness caused when the reason for sadness occurs. We ought not to anticipate it before it occurs. To experience it before it occurs is a kind of evil and malignancy. (6) Also, it is necessary not to experience it when it occurs before it is repelled. For it is harmful, as we [said] before. Therefore it is absolutely necessary to repel it, when it occurs. Whatever causes sadness is necessarily repelled by consolation after a while, if the sad person does not perish together with the sadness or shortly after the onset of sadness [i.e. if he does not die before being consoled]. (7) It is in the nature of sadness to disappear, for all things subject to coming-to-be also pass away and do not remain in [their] individual parts. We therefore ought to make every effort to alleviate and shorten the duration of the sorrow. If we shorten it <...while if we do not shorten it>, we shorten in others the repelling of the affliction that we can repel from ourselves. (8) This is characteristic for someone ignorant, wretched, boorish and unjust, for unjust is he who remains afflicted, and the most wretched is he who makes no effort to repel affliction from himself as best he can. We should not content ourselves with being wretched while we can be happy.

(1) A nice method for this is to remember the things which made us sad in the past, and from which we were consoled, as well as the things which made other people sad, whose sadness and consolation we have witnessed; and to see in our [present] state of sadness one of the saddening things of the past or one of the saddening thing which we perceived in other people, and the consolation which was brought about in the end. This gives us a great ability to console ourselves, as it did for instance in the case of Alexander, son of Philip, king of Macedonia, who persuaded his mother to be steadfast when he was on his death-bed. (2) Among his writings we find the following letter to her: «O mother of Alexander, always bear in mind that everything subject to coming-to-be and passing-away is going to be obliterated, and that your son does not content himself with the manners of minor kings, nor should you be content for yourself, when he dies, with the manners of minor mothers of kings. Order a great city to be built when you receive the message about the death of Alexander, and send word that all the people of Libya, Europe and Asia should throng to you on a set day; and that on that day, they will gather in that city to eat, drink and be merry. Order it to be announced to them that no one should come to you who has been afflicted by a misfortune, in order that Alexander's funeral be celebrated joyfully and differently from the funerals of other people which take place in sadness.» (3) After she had given orders accordingly, nobody came to her at the appointed time. Then she said: «why do people stay away from us, even though we have previously [sent for them]?» It was said to her: «You ordered that no-one come to you who has [in the past] suffered from a misfortune, yet all people have suffered from misfortunes, therefore no one has come to you.« She said: «O Alexander, how similar are your last deeds to your first. You wanted to make me completely steadfast against my loss of you; for I am not the first to suffer from misfortunes, nor are they specific to any one human being.»

Too Hard To Bear

James Hinton, Love's Offering, 1883, LII., p. 130:

        When I think sometimes that for years and years
          New springs may clothe the hills in mocking green
          And new blue skies with their high azure sheen
        Gladden the hearts of men,—and that men's ears
        May mark new love-songs woven of joy and tears
          And all things else be just as they have been
          Save only that thou are not here, my queen,—
        I tremble with interminable fears.

        That I should lose thee—thee my one delight,
          while God keeps crowds of throstles at his ear,—
        Thee my one lily, while God's lilies white
          Are numberless and sweet and ever near
        His throne,—my one star, while he has the night
          Of stars,—great God, this seems too hard to bear!

Sin

A sonnet by Luís de Camões, Sin, tr. William Baer (Selected Sonnets, University of Chicago Press, 2008, pp. 46-47):

        Happy is he whose only problem worth
        complaining about is love’s audacious schemes,
        since they alone can never destroy his dreams
        of finding some contentment here on earth.

        Happy is he who, far from home, embraces
        nothing but his long-lost memories,
        because when new problems arise, he sees
        them clearly, comprehending the sorrow he faces.

        And happy is he who lives in any state
        where only fraud and love’s deceits and doubt,
        are able to torture his heart from within.

        But tragic is he who lives beneath the weight
        of some unforgivable act, living without
        consciousness of the damage of his sin.

        Ditoso seja aquele que somente
        se queixa de amorosas esquivanças;
        pois por elas não perde as esperanças
        de poder n’algum tempo ser contente.

        Ditoso seja quem, estando absente,
        não sente mais que a pena das lembranças;
        porque inda que se tema de mudanças,
        menos se teme a dor quando se sente.
        
        Ditoso seja, enfim, qualquer estado
        onde enganos, desprezos e isenção
        trazem o coração atormentado.

        Mas triste quem se sente magoado
        de erros em que não pode haver perdão,
        sem ficar n’alma a mágoa do pecado.

Ghostly And Unreal

Egon Friedell, A Cultural History of the Modern Age, tr. Charles Francis Atkinson, Vol. I (1930; rpt. London: Vision Press, 1953), p. 147:

And most probably our century will seem as ghostly and unreal to a later age as the fourteenth century to us.

Liberation Through Restriction

Goethe, as quoted in: Emil Ludwig, Goethe: The History of a Man, tr. Ethel Colburn Mayne (G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1928), p. 136:

To live within limits, to want one thing, or a very few things, very much and love them very dearly, cling to them, survey them from every angle, become one with them—that is what makes the poet, the artist, the human being.