I have no faith in human perfectibility. I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon humanity. Man is now only more active - not more happy - nor more wise, than he was 6000 years ago.
Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness. If, in our heart, we still cling to anything - anger, anxiety, or possessions - we cannot be free.
Happiness is not a possession to be prized, it is a quality of thought, a state of mind.
I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I'm going to be happy in it.
Action may not always bring happiness, but there is no happiness without action.
And I can't be running back and fourth forever between grief and high delight.
A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
That's the difference between me and the rest of the world! Happiness isn't good enough for me! I demand euphoria!
The greater part of our happiness or misery depends upon our dispositions, and not upon our circumstances.
What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again.
Wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants.
Very little is needed to make a happy life; it is all within yourself in your way of thinking.
The pain I feel now is the happiness I had before. That's the deal.
I am very happy Because I have conquered myself And not the world. I am very happy Because I have loved the world And not myself.
If only we'd stop trying to be happy, we could have a pretty good time.
I'm a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.
The sense of unhappiness is so much easier to convey than that of happiness. In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of a monstrous egotism: this pain of mine is individual, this nerve that winces belongs to me and to no other. But happiness annihilates us: we lose our identity.
Let us dance in the sun, wearing wild flowers in our hair...
The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist; a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain.
Happiness. It was the place where passion, with all its dazzle and drumbeat, met something softer: homecoming and safety and pure sunbeam comfort. It was all those things, intertwined with the heat and the thrill, and it was as bright within her as a swallowed star.
