Anne Sophie Swetchine (née Sofia Petrovna Soymonova; November 22, 1782 – 1857), known as Madame Swetchine, was a Russian mystic, born in Moscow, and famous for her salon in Paris.
Travel is the frivolous part of serious lives, and the serious part of frivolous ones.
Life grows darker as we go on, till only one pure light is left shining on it; and that is faith. Old age, like solitude and sorrow, has its revelations.
The most culpable of the excesses of Liberty is the harm she does herself.
In a healthy state of the organism all wounds have a tendency to heal.
Old age is not one of the beauties of creation, but it is one of its harmonies. The law of contrasts is one of the laws of beauty. Under the conditions of our climate, shadow gives light its worth; sternness enhances mildness; solemnity, splendor. Varying proportions of size support and subserve one another.
Let us resist the opinion of the world fearlessly, provided only that our self-respect grows in proportion to our indifference.
He who has never denied himself for the sake of giving has but glanced at the joys of charity.
To have ideas is to gather flowers; to think is to weave them into garlands.
The heart has always the pardoning power.
Might we not say to the confused voices which sometimes arise from the depths of our being: "Ladies, be so kind as to speak only four at a time?"
The only true method of action in this world is to be in it, but not of it.
One must be a somebody before they can have an enemy. One must be a force before he can be resisted by another force.
Silence is like nightfall. Objects are lost in it insensibly.
Let us not fail to scatter along our pathway the seeds of kindness and sympathy. Some of them will doubtless perish; but if one only lives, it will perfume our steps and rejoice our eyes.
A friendship will be young after the lapse of half a century; a passion is old at the end of three months.
We must labor unceasingly to render our piety reasonable, and our reason pious.
If we look closely at this earth, where God seems so utterly forgotten, we shall find that it is He, after all, who commands the most fidelity and the most love.
There is nothing at all in life, except what we put there.
It would seem that by our sorrows only are we called to a knowledge of the Infinite. Are we happy? The limits of life constrain us on all sides.
The chains which cramp us most are those which weigh on us least.