It is the tragedy of other people that they are to us merely showcases for the very perishable collections of our own mind.

We are never the same with others as when we are alone; we are different, even, when we are in the dark with them.

Others are to us like the characters in fiction, eternal and incorrigible; the surprises they give us turn out in the end to have been predictable- unexpected variations on the theme of being themselves.

The longer we live, the more we find we are like other persons.

Just as much as we see in others we have in ourselves.

At last you are no longer searching for yourself, but for another-you are saved.

We cannot forgive another for not being ourselves.

Try to forget our cares and our maladies, and contribute, as we can, to the cheerfulness of each other.

Always think in terms of what the other person wants.

Other men are lenses through which we read our own minds.

We are born not for ourselves alone.

It is when we try to grapple with another man's intimate need that we perceive how incomprehensible, wavering, and misty are the beings that share with us the sight of the stars and the warmth of the sun.

We are better able to study our neighbors than ourselves, and their actions than our own.

Most often it happens that one attributes to others only the feelings of which one is capable oneself.

None knows the weight of another's burden.

We are on earth to do good to others. What the others are here for, I don't know.

The best way to cheer yourself is to try to cheer somebody else up.

You probably wouldn't worry about what people think of you if you could know how seldom they do.

It is well to remember that the entire universe, with one trifling exception, is composed of others.

Only a life lived for others is the life worth while.