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Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering - and it's all over much too soon.

The tragedy of life is in what dies inside a man while he lives - the death of genuine feeling, the death of inspired response, the awareness that makes it possible to feel the pain or the glory of other men in yourself.

Life is life, and one has experiences that are painful and some that are very pleasant, and one has reward and sacrifice and more reward and disappointment and joy and happiness, and it's always going to be the same.

Man is subject to innumerable pains and sorrows by the very condition of humanity, and yet, as if nature had not sown evils enough in life, we are continually adding grief to grief and aggravating the common calamity by our cruel treatment of one another.

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.

No matter what is happening in life or in the world - war, natural disaster, poor health, pain, the death of loved ones - if existence is filled with art, music and literature, life will be fulfilling, a joy.

Our fate is determined by how far we are prepared to push ourselves to stay alive - the decisions we make to survive. We must do whatever it takes to endure and make it through alive.

Every life has a measure of sorrow, and sometimes this is what awakens us.

Some of us only meet in the most fleeting moments; some of us never meet, but still hear about one another and therefore cherish what we know from what we've heard, and mourn the loss, even though we're spared what the close-loved ones must endure - the ongoing pain of an empty place in the heart for the rest of life.

There have been hours in my unhappy life, many of them, when the contemplation of death as the end of earthly sorrow - of the grave as a resting place for the tired and worn out body - has been pleasant to dwell upon.