Quotes About Compassion

In all that is to come, think on forgiveness. Hold to it, but know too that it must not always be freely given. Sometimes forgiveness must be denied.

To grieve is a gift best shared. As a song is shared.

I advised you to not look for hope from your leaders, for they shall feed you naught but lies. Yet hope exists. Seek for it, Brys Beddict, in the one who stands at your side, from the stranger upon the other side of the street. Be brave enough to endeavour to cross that street. Look neither skyward nor upon the ground. Hope persists, and its voice is compassion, and honest doubt.

We are all worthwhile, sir, once we assume the burden of forgiveness and the effort of absolution.

It is an extraordinary act of courage,' said Tulas Shorn, 'to come to know a stranger's pain. To even consider such a thing demands a profound dispensation, a willingness to wear someone else's chains, to taste their suffering, to see with one's own eyes the hue cast on all things – the terrible stain that is despair.

Because true friends knew when to keep silent, to give all the patience needed.

Among humans, cold indifference was often manifested in acts of brutal cruelty, was often the true visage of evil

If not for a dumb beast's incomprehension at its own destruction beneath the loving hands of two heartbroken children.

His heart was vast, it was true. He was a thing of sentimentality and compassion, so contrary to his bestial appearance, his simian fire. But such creatures were vulnerable. Their hearts bled too freely, and the scars never knitted true.

Will you accept that suffering defies boundaries and that pain carves no line in the sand?

Udinaas could not decide which of the two was the more pathetic. Seeing them, as he did now, they both broke his heart, and there seemed no way to distinguish between the two. As if grief had flavours .

Fanaticism was poison in the soul, and the first victim in its inexorable, ever-growing list was compassion. Who could speak of freedom, when one's own soul was bound in chains?

Not all things about oneself were likeable. So she had wept for her flaws, for her weaknesses and for her humanity. Before two witnesses who no doubt had their own stories, their own reasons to grieve.

Show me a merciful child and I will truly avow a belief in miracles.

The wounded will wound.

But compassion was engagement, a mindfulness beyond that of mere witness

A child starved never grows tall or strong. A child unloved can never find love or give it when grown. A child that does not laugh will become someone who can find nothing in the world to laugh at. And a child hurt deeply enough will spend a lifetime trying to scab that wound – even as they ceaselessly pick at it.

So much had changed inside him. He was no believer in causes, not any more. Certainty was an illusion, a lie. Fanaticism was poison in the soul, and the first victim in its inexorable, ever-growing list was compassion. Who could speak of freedom, when one's own soul was bound in chains?

Worship the sacrifice they will make, for they make it in the name of compassion—the only cause worth fighting and dying for.

Compassion is not a replacement for stupidity. Tearful concern cannot stand in the stead of cold recognition. Sympathy does not cancel out the hard facts of brutal, unwavering observation. It was too easy, too cheap, to fret and wring one's hands, moaning with heartfelt empathy – it was damned self-indulgent, in fact, providing the perfect excuse for doing precisely nothing while assuming a pious pose. Enough of that.

When selfishness becomes a pathology, there will be many innocent victims.

He understands that there are wounds in the soul that must not be touched; but there are others that warm to the caress.

He's new to responsibility, Captain. You'll have to teach him." Teach him what? How to live beneath the burden of command? That's something I can't manage myself. I need only look into Whiskeyjack's face to understand that no one can - no-one who has a heart, anyway. We learn to achieve but one thing: the ability to hide our thoughts, to mask our feelings, to bury our humanity deep in our souls. And that can't be taught, only shown.

Who was Harllo? The man walked to his horse and swung himself into the saddle. He collected the reins. 'I'm not sure,' he said after a moment's consideration. 'The way it started, well, it seemed . . .' he hesitated, and then said, 'he was a boy nobody loved.