More helpful than all wisdom is one draught of simple pity that will not forsake us

And I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples and bastards and broken things.

The scavenger of misery is pity.

Some things take so long
But how do I explain
When not too many people
Can see we're all the same
And because of all their tears
Your eyes can't hope to see
The beauty that surrounds them
Now, isn't it a pity

Life, I fancy, would very often be insupportable, but for the luxury of self-compassion.

Self-pity is an emotion that is reserved for quitters.