A Quote by Seneca the Younger

The wretched hasten to hear of their own miseries. — © Seneca the Younger
The wretched hasten to hear of their own miseries.

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Human misery is so appalling nowadays that if we allowed ourselves to dwell on it we should only add imaginary miseries of our own to the real miseries of others without doing them any good.
Man's greatness is great in that he knows himself wretched. A tree does not know itself wretched. It is then being wretched to know oneself wretched; but it is being great to know that one is wretched.
If our hearts are full of our own wretched "I ams" we will have no ears to hear His glorious, soul-satisfying "I Am."
The man who has learned to triumph over sorrow wears his miseries as though they were sacred fillets upon his brow; and nothing is so entirely admirable as a man bravely wretched.
You will know that wretched men are the cause of their own suffering, who neither see nor hear the good that is near them, and few are the ones who know how to secure release from their troubles.
The condition of all who are preoccupied is wretched, but most wretched is the condition of those who labor at preoccupations that are not even their own, who regulate their sleep by that of another, their walk by the pace of another, who are under orders in case of the freest things in the world-loving and hating. If these wish to know how short their life is, let them reflect how small a part of it is their own.
O wretched man, wretched not just because of what you are, but also because you do not know how wretched you are!
Generally speaking we don't want to hear from the soul. We want it to just do its job. Unfortunately, in a broken world, it also is broken, and we're going to hear from it because many of the ordinary miseries and extraordinary glories of human life are expressions of the state of the soul.
To hear complaints is wearisome alike to the wretched and the happy.
A crown! what is it? It is to bear the miseries of a people! To hear their murmurs, feel their discontents, And sink beneath a load of splendid care!
Love, love, love – all the wretched cant of it, masking egotism, lust, masochism, fantasy under a mythology of sentimental postures, a welter of self-induced miseries and joys, blinding and masking the essential personalities in the frozen gestures of courtship, in the kissing and the dating and the desire, the compliments and the quarrels which vivify its barrenness.
Distraction is the only thing that consoles us for our miseries. Yet it is itself the greatest of our miseries.
The greatness of man is great in that he knows himself to be wretched. A tree does not know itself to be wretched.
A wretched woman is more unfortunate than a wretched man.
How we are born to invent our own miseries!
...learn from my miseries, and do not seek to increase your own.
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