"I have passed my winter like a Carthusian monk," he writes to D'Argens: "I dine alone; I spend my life in reading and writing; and I do not sup.

When one is sad, it becomes at last too burdensome to hide one's grief continually; and it is better to give way to it by oneself, than to carry one's gloom into society.

Nothing solaces me but the vigorous application required in steady and continuous labor.

This distraction does force one to put away painful ideas, while it lasts: but, alas, no sooner is the work done, than these fatal companions present themselves again, as if livelier than ever.

Maupertuis was right: the sum of evil does certainly surpass that of good:--but to me it is all one; I have almost nothing more to lose; and my few remaining days, what matters it much of what complexion they be ?" ["Breslau, 1st March, 1759," To D'Argens (_OEuvres de Frederic,_ xix.