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Oh the nerves, the nerves the mysteries of this machine called man! Oh the little that unhinges it, poor creatures that we are!
Charles Dickens
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Charles Dickens
Age: 58 †
Born: 1812
Born: February 7
Died: 1870
Died: June 9
Author
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Landport
Hampshire
Dickens
C.Dickens
Charles John Huffam Dickens
Boz
Littles
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Anxiety
Men
Machines
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Neurosis
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Mysteries
Poor
Nerves
More quotes by Charles Dickens
Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years it was a splendid laugh!
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For a long time, no village girl would dress her hair or bosom with the sweetest flower from that field of death: and after many a year had come and gone, the berries growing there, were still believed to leave too deep a stain upon the hand that plucked them.
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It is when our budding hopes are nipped beyond recovery by some rough wind, that we are the most disposed to picture to ourselves what flowers they might have borne, if they had flourished . . .
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I was so humiliated, hurt, spurned, offended, angry, sorry--I cannot hit upon the right name for the smart--God knows what its name was--that tears started to my eyes.
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In seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the disease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it.
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Well, well! said my aunt. I only ask. I don't depreciate her. Poor little couple! And so you think you were formed for one another, and are to go through a party-supper-table kind of life, like two pretty pieces of confectionery, do you, Trot?
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It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.
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Up the two terrace flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a swift messenger rousing those within.
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What are the odds so long as the fire of the soul is kindled at the taper of conviviality, and the wing of friendship never molts a feather?
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The worst class of sum worked in the every-day world is cyphered by the diseased arithmeticians who are always in the rule of Subtraction as to the merits and successes of others, and never in Addition as to their own.
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a most excellent man, though I could have wished his trousers not quite so tight in some places and not quite so loose in others.
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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
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I want to escape from myself. For when I do start up and stare myself seedily in the face, as happens to be my case at present, my blankness is inconceivable--indescribable--my misery amazing.
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[I]t seemed as if the streets were absorbed by the sky, and the night were all in the air.
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That sort of half sigh, which, accompanied by two or three slight nods of the head, is pity's small change in general society.
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I am a neat hand at cookery, and I'll tell you what I knocked up for my Christmas-eve dinner in the Library Cart. I knocked up a beefsteak-pudding for one, with two kidneys, a dozen oysters, and a couple of mushrooms thrown in. It's a pudding to put a man in good humour with everything, except the two bottom buttons of his waistcoat.
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Dumb as a drum vith a hole in it, sir.
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And I am bored to death with it. Bored to death with this place, bored to death with my life, bored to death with myself.
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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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One always begins to forgive a place as soon as it's left behind.
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