Charles Dickens Quotes
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Change begets change. Nothing propagates so fast.
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Any man may be in good spirits and good temper when he's well dressed. There ain't much credit in that.
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Mr. Pickwick took a seat and the paper, but instead of reading the latter, peeped over the top of it, and took a survey of the man of business, who was an elderly, pimply-faced, vegetable-diet sort of man, in a black coat, dark mixture trousers, and small black gaiters; a kind of being who seemed to be an essential part of the desk at which he was writing, and to have as much thought or sentiment.
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I expect a judgment. Shortly.
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You hear, Eugene?' said Lightwood over his shoulder. 'You are deeply interested in lime.' 'Without lime,' returned that unmoved barrister at law, 'my existence would be unilluminated by a ray of hope.
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She had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good.
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Love, though said to be afflicted with blindness, is a vigilant watchman.
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Veels vithin veels, a prison in a prison.
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I would like to be going all over the kingdom...and acting everywhere. There's nothing in the world equal to seeing the house rise at you, one sea of delightful faces, one hurrah of applause!
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My hair stands on end at the cost and charges of these boys. Why was I ever a father! Why was my father ever a father!
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When we came within sight of the sea, the waves on the horizon, caught at intervals above the rolling abyss, were like glimpses of another shore with towers and buildings.
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There might be some credit in being jolly.
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There was a gay fiction among us that we were constantly enjoying ourselves, and a skeleton truth that we never did. To the best of my belief, our case was in the last respect a rather common one.
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I made a compact with myself that in my person literature should stand by itself, of itself, and for itself.
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This is a world of action, and not moping and droning in.
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The ocean asks for nothing but those who stand by her shores gradually attune themselves to her rhythm.
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An inebriated elderly gentleman in the last depths of shabbiness... played the calm and virtuous old men.
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Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain.
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Yet, I had nothing else to tell; unless, indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less moment still), that no one can ever believe this Narrative, in the reading, more than I believed it in the writing.
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For though we are perpetually bragging of it as our safety, it is nothing but a poor fringe on the mantle of the upper.
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In this way they went on, and on, and on-in the language of the story-books-until at last the village lights appeared before them, and the church spire cast a long reflection on the graveyard grass; as if it were a dial (alas, the truest in the world!) marking, whatever light shone out of Heaven, the flight of days and weeks and years, by some new shadow on that solemn ground.
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Philosophers are only men in armor after all.
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He would make a lovely corpse.
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... I have read in your face, as plain as if it was a book, that but for some trouble and sorrow we should never know half the good there is about us.