Quotes About Joy

Dear Jesus, he said, pressing thumb and forefinger into his tightly shut eyes. What a privilege it is to stand before you this day! What a blessing to pray with You! Let us be joyful, joyful, in Your presence! What's he talking about? thought Harriet, dazed. Her mosquito bites itched, but she didn't dare scratch them. Through half-closed eyes, she stared at her feet.

but does it make any sense at all to know that it ends badly for all of us, and that we all lose everything that matters in the end-and yet to know as well, despite all this, as cruelly as the game is stacked, that it's possible to play it with a kind of joy?

yet to know as well, despite all this, as cruelly as the game is stacked, that it's possible to play it with a kind of joy?

Does it make any sense at all to know that it ends badly for all of us, even the happiest of us, and that we all lose everything that matters in the end—and yet to know as well, despite all this, as cruelly as the game is stacked, that it's possible to play it with a kind of joy?

Who knew it was in my power to make anyone so happy? Or that I could ever be so happy myself?

And for the first time, I smiled, and everybody else smiled back.

I find the humor in life, and laugh easily

Valliant. "Humor can be marvelously therapeutic

think imagination is one of the greatest blessings of life," Edith later wrote, "and while one can lose oneself in a book one can never be thoroughly unhappy.

The story is told of Lincoln's first meeting with Mary at a festive party. Captivated by her lively manner, intelligent face, clear blue eyes, and dimpled smile, Lincoln reportedly said, "I want to dance with you in the worst way." And, Mary laughingly told her cousin later that night, "he certainly did.

I think imagination is one of the greatest blessings of life," Edith later wrote, "and while one can lose oneself in a book one can never be thoroughly unhappy.

All sanity depends on this: that it should be a delight to feel the roughness of a carpet under smooth soles, a delight to feel heat strike the skin, a delight to stand upright, knowing the bones are moving easily under the flesh.

I have never, in all my life, been so desperately and wildly and painfully happy as I was then. It was so strong I couldn't believe it. I remember saying to myself, This is it, this is being happy, and at the same time I was appalled because it had come out of so much ugliness and unhappiness.

I was marvelling, again, how easy it is, living deprived, to forget love, joy, delight.

And that was when she realized that laughter, which they had lost, had come back to them, and they were whole again.

He was not a figment of daydream or of fantasy. He was the quick-witted man who had raced with her; the man whose strong wrists had pulled her from trouble; whose laughter recognized, more than his own, her buffoonery; whose voice had whispered, sung, exclaimed or cursed, with equal felicity, carefree as birdsong on top of their striving. Whose essence, stripped by necessity was, it now seemed, warm and joyous and of great generosity.

Immoderation, Mariotta, is a thief of money and intestinal joy, but who'd check it? Not I. Here I am, weeping soft tears of myrrh, to prove it.

A moment later the music began, and Kate shrank beneath the onslaught of its message: the fury of hope and joy that towered in the notes, outburning the sunlight and outpouring the volumes of the sea. All that was bold and noble and happy in created sound burst from the metempirical quills, and it was a blasphemy not to rejoice. Christian died in its midst, purposeful and successful; the last struggle unseen by anyone but Kate, and laying no bridle on the living.

He looked well. And as if somewhere, lately, he had tasted happiness.

Standing drunk in the yard, while the rain soaked his hair and spread cold through the cloth of his doublet, Jerott thought of the fine design, firmly executed, of the campaign of Guînes and of Calais. And of his own joy and his liberation, after these huckstering years, to be again under the hand of this man, his arts at their meridian.

This and your music … you have happiness. Why cannot I find it?' 'Because you do not look in the right places,' said Kiaya.

I do know the worst sin--perhaps the only sin--passion can commit, is to be joyless.

Ah! childhood! You're living the happiest days of your life, young man. You won't believe me, but you are.

Nothing!" said Peter. "Begone, dull care! Eructavit cor meum.