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Fan the sinking flame of hilarity with the wing of friendship and pass the rosy wine.
Charles Dickens
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Charles Dickens
Age: 58 †
Born: 1812
Born: February 7
Died: 1870
Died: June 9
Author
Editor
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Social Critic
Writer
Landport
Hampshire
Dickens
C.Dickens
Charles John Huffam Dickens
Boz
Flames
Wings
Pass
Wine
Hilarity
Friendship
Rosy
Fans
Sinking
Company
Flame
Wing
More quotes by Charles Dickens
Can you suppose there's any harm in looking as cheerful and being as cheerful as our poor circumstances will permit?
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...and to-morrow looked in my face more steadily than I could look at it
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She's a very charming and delightful creature, quoth Mr. Robert Sawyer, in reply and has only one fault that I know of, Ben. It happens, unfortunately, that that single blemish is a want of taste. She don't like me.
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Cheerfulness and contentment are great beautifiers, and are famous preservers of good looks.
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We changed again, and yet again, and it was now too late and too far to go back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and the world lay spread before me.
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Have I yet to learn that the hardest and best-borne trials are those which are never chronicled in any earthly record, and are suffered every day!
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every idiot who goes about with a 'Merry Christmas' on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.
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There is nothing so strong or safe in an emergency of life as the simple truth.
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Crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seeds of rapacious licence and oppression over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind.
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What lawsuits grow out of the graves of rich men, every day sowing perjury, hatred, and lies among near kindred, where there should be nothing but love!
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Old Time, that greatest and longest established spinner of all!... his factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, and his Hands are mutes.
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Why should I disguise what you know so well, but what the crowd never dream of? We companies are all birds of prey mere birds of prey. The only question is, whether in serving our own turn, we can serve yours too whether in double-lining our own nest, we can put a single living into yours.
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Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.
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There seems a magic in the very name of Christmas.
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Its matter was not new to me, but was presented in a new aspect. It shook me in my habit - the habit of nine-tenths of the world - of believing that all was right about me, because I was used to it.
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Before I go, he said, and paused -- I may kiss her? It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a handsome old lady, that she heard him say, A life you love.
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And yet I love him. I love him so much and so dearly, that when I sometimes think my life may be but a weary one, I am proud of it and glad of it. I am proud and glad to suffer something for him, even though it is of no service to him, and he will never know of it or care for it.
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At last, in the dead of the night, when the street was very still indeed, Little Dorrit laid the heavy head upon her bosom, and soothed her to sleep. And thus she sat at the gate, as it were alone looking up at the stars, and seeing the clouds pass over them in their wild flight-which was the dance at Little Dorrit's party.
Charles Dickens
