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It is no worse, because I write of it. It would be no better, if I stopped my most unwilling hand. Nothing can undo it nothing can make it otherwise than as it was.

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
Write
Hands
Better
Undo
Nothing
Unwilling
Writing
Stopped
Make
Otherwise
Would
Worse
Hand

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Money, says the proverb, makes money. When you have got a little, it is often easy to get more.
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I hope that real love and truth are stronger in the end than any evil or misfortune in the world.
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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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There might be some credit in being jolly.
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Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.
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He was the meekest of his sex, the mildest of little men. He sidled in and out of a room, to take up the less space. He walked as softly as the Ghost in Hamlet, and more slowly. He carried his head on one side, partly in modest depreciation of himself, partly in modest propitiation of everybody else.
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O' course I came to look arter you, my darlin', replied Mr. Weller for once permitting his passion to get the better of his veracity.
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He was sailing over a boundless expanse of sea, with a blood-red sky above, and the angry waters, lashed into fury beneath, boiling and eddying up, on every side. There was another vessel before them, toiling and labouring in the howling storm: her canvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast.
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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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Love is not a feeling to pass away Like the balmy breath of a Summer's day....... Love is not a passion of earthly mould As a thirst for honour, or fame, or gold
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Nobody near me here, but rats, and they are fine stealthy secret fellows.
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I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and like the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes.
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Poetry's unnat'ral no man ever talked poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day.
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I am well aware that I am the 'umblest person going. . . . My mother is likewise a very 'umble person. We live in a 'umble abode.
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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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When death strikes down the innocent and young, for every fragile form from which he lets the panting spirit free, a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to walk the world and bless it. Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature comes.
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God bless us, every one!
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This is the even-handed dealing of the world! he said. There is noth-ing on which it is so hard as poverty and there is nothing it professes tocondemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth!
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