Quotes About Compassion

It's your turn to be the centre, to give others what was given to you for so long. You've got to give security to young people and peace to your husband, and a sort of charity to the old. You've got to let the people who work for you depend on you. You've got to cover up a few more troubles than you show, and be a little more patient than the average person, and do a little more instead of a little less than your share. The light and glitter of the world is in your hands.

Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.

Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering—this is an all-weather beatitude for gloom in general and fairly salutary day-time advice for everyone. But at three o'clock in the morning, a forgotten package has the same tragic importance as a death sentence, and the cure doesn't work—and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.

Life is so damned hard, so damned hard... It just hurts people and hurts people, until finally it hurts them so that they can't be hurt ever any more. That's the last and worst thing it does.

If you spend your life sparing people's feelings and feeding their vanity, you get so you can't distinguish what should be respected in them.

Human sympathy has its limits.

He's sensitive and I don't want him to break his heart over somebody who doesn't care about him.

It isn't given to us to know those rare moments when people are wide open and the lightest touch can wither or heal. A moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world. They will not be cured by our most efficacious drugs or slain with our sharpest swords.

Who would not be pleased at carrying lamps helpfully through the darkness?

Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead, he suggested. After that my own rule is to let everything alone.

You should have risen above it, I said smugly. It's not a slam at you when people are rude -- it's a slam at the people they've met before.

Then a strange thing happened. She turned to him and smiled, and as he saw her smile every rag of anger and hurt vanity dropped form him - as though his very moods were but the outer ripples of her own, as though emotion rose no longer in his breast unless she saw fit to pull an omnipotent controlling thread.

I only wanted absolute quiet to think out why I had developed a sad attitude toward sadness, a melancholy attitude toward melancholy and a tragic attitude toward tragedy — why I had become identified with the objects of my horror or compassion.

Whenever you feel like criticzing any one, he told me, just remember that all the people in this world haven´t had the advantages that you've had.

Cada vez que creas que tienes que criticar a alguien, me dijo, solo recuerda que no toda la gente de este mundo ha contado con las ventajas de que tú has gozado.

Quando te sentires com vontade de criticar alguém, lembra-te disto: nem todos tiveram neste mundo as vantagens que tu tiveste.

No one likes to see people in moods of despair they themselves have survived.

we are seldom sorry for those who need and crave our pity—we reserve this for those who, by other means, make us exercise the abstract function of pity.

There had been something in the details he had chosen to describe that made her cry herself asleep that night, for the kitten, for Anthony for herself, for the pain and bitterness and cruelty of all the world.

It's only when the settlement work has gone on for months that one realizes how bad things are. As our secretary said to me, your finger-nails never seem dirty until you wash your hands.

Yet in the awful majesty of her pain he went out to her unreservedly, almost sexually. He wanted to gather her up in her arms, as he so often had Nicole, and cherish even her mistakes, so deeply were they part of her. The orange light through the drawn blind, the sarcophagus of her figure on the bed, the spot of face, the voice searching in the vacuity of her illness and finding only remote abstractions. As he arose the tears fled lava-like into her bandages.

No... no... We never forgive those we can understand... We can only forgive those who wound us for no reason at all...

Similarly we are seldom sorry for those who need and crave our pity--we reserve this for those who, by other means, make us exercise the

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