Thinking of consolations. Boethius famously wrote “Consolation of Philosophy” in the 6th century from a jail cell pending execution after being betrayed while in high office. “No man can ever truly be secure until he has been forsaken by Fortune,” the text reads. I suppose the idea is such a fall requires one to rely on spirit and virtue. More recently Alain de Botton updated the notion in Boethius’ title, using different philosophers to address various problems in life.
It is less cerebral perhaps, but I think consolation can also be found in poetry. I think of this one occasionally by Robert Frost, “Acquainted with the Night.” The last stanza seems a rejoinder to Hamlet saying the time is out of joint. It is a palliative for insomniacs:
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.