I say, indeed: consolation in the nonsentience of nature. For nonsentience is consoling; the world of nonsentience is the world outside human life; it is eternity; it is the sea gone off with the sun (Rimbaud).

Many a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of Misery, Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on.

There is nothing so bitter that a patient mind cannot find some solace for it.

The kind of solace that arises from having company in misery is spiteful.

Perhaps the greatest consolation of the oppressed is to consider themselves superior to their tyrants.