Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness blow the rest away.
A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him I may think aloud. I am arrived at last in the presence of a man so real and equal, that I may drop even those undermost garments of dissimulation, courtesy, and second thought, which men never put off, and may deal with him with the simplicity and wholeness with which one chemical atom meets another.
In my friend, I find a second self.
Friendship is one mind in two bodies.
It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.
Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive.
There is one friend in the life of each of us who seems not a separate person, however dear and beloved, but an expansion, an interpretation, of one's self, the very meaning of one's soul.
The friend who holds your hand and says the wrong thing is made of dearer stuff than the one who stays away.
Friends are the sailors who guide your rickety boat safely across the dangerous waters of life.
We have been friends together In sunshine and in shade.
