Quotes About Happiness

Few things are so pleasant as the anticipation of them...

I don't know anything that braces one up like finding you haven't got to get married after all.

she was usually keenly susceptible to weather conditions and reveled in sunshine like a kitten.

Cosy Moments cannot be muzzled!

The years fell away from him till, in an instant, from being a rather poorly preserved, liverish greybeard of sixty-five or so, he became a sprightly lad of twenty-one in a world of springtime and flowers and laughing brooks. In other words, taking it by and large, George felt pretty good. The impossible had happened; Heaven had sent him an adventure, and he didn't care if it snowed.

What magic there is in a girl's smile! It is the raisin which, dropped in the yeast of male complacency, induces fermentation.

If there's one thing I like, it's a quiet life. I'm not one of those fellows who get all restless and depressed if things aren't happening to them all the time. You can't make it too placid for me. Give me regular meals, a good show with decent music every now and then, and one or two pals to totter round with, and I ask no more.

As we grow older and realize more clearly the limitations of human happiness, we come to see that the only real and abiding pleasure in life is to give pleasure to other people. One

Get married, P.K. Purvis, said Gussie earnestly. It's the only life ...

He was as completely happy as only a fluffy-minded old man with excellent health and a large income can be.

The gods are business-like. They sell; they do not give. And for what they sell they demand a heavy price. We may buy life of them in many ways; with our honour, our health, our independence, our happiness; with our brains or with our hands. But somehow or other, in whatever currency we may choose to pay it, the price must be paid.

A] single glance told him that here was somebody who was sitting on a pink cloud with a rainbow round his shoulder. Mr. Trout had not yet burst into song with a hey nonny nonny and a hotchacha, but when you said that you had said everything.

Each in the most hidden sack kept the lost jewels of memory, intense love, secret nights and permanent kisses, the fragment of public or private happiness. A few, the wolves, collected thighs, other men loved the dawn scratching mountain ranges or ice floes, locomotives, numbers. For me happiness was to share singing, praising, cursing, crying with a thousand eyes. I ask forgiveness for my bad ways: my life had no use on earth.

Algún día en cualquier parte, en cualquier lugar indefectiblemente te encontrarás a ti mismo, y ésa, sólo ésa, puede ser la más feliz o la más amarga de tus horas.

Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.

Take bread away from me, if you wish, take air away, but do not take from me your laughter.

Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente. Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto. Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan. Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you are absent distant and full of sorrow as though you had died One word then, one smile is enough And I'm happy; happy that it's not true

Child who does not play is not a child, but the man who does not play has lost forever the child who lived within him and who he will miss terribly

deny me bread, air, light, spring, but never your laughter for I would die.

It was beautiful to live when you lived!

My kisses fell, happy as embers.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent, distant and full of sorrow as though you had died. One word then, one smile, is enough. And I am happy, happy that it's not true.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle, and even your breasts smell of it. While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth. — Pablo Neruda, from "XIV [Every day you play with the light of the universe.]," Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despai r, in The Poetry of Pablo Neruda , ed. Ilan Stavans (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2003)