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I loved you madly in the distasteful work of the day, in the wakeful misery of the night, girded by sordid realities, or wandering through Paradises and Hells of visions into which I rushed, carrying your image in my arms, I loved you madly.

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
Work
Misery
Distasteful
Love
Image
Rushed
Arms
Wandering
Girded
Loved
Visions
Paradises
Hell
Realities
Wakeful
Vision
Carrying
Hells
Night
Wander
Sordid
Reality
Paradise
Madly

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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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Gold, for the instant, lost its luster in his eyes, for there were countless treasures of the heart which it could never purchase
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...and to-morrow looked in my face more steadily than I could look at it
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It was one of those hot, silent nights, when people sit at windows listening for the thunder which they know will shortly break when they recall dismal tales of hurricanes and earthquakes and of lonely travellers on open plains, and lonely ships at sea, struck by lightning.
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Oh Agnes, Oh my soul, so may thy face be by me when I close my life indeed so may I, when realities are melting from me, like the shadows which I now dismiss, still find thee near me, pointing upward!
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Take the pencil and write under my name, 'I forgive her.
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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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For nature gives to every time and season some beauties of its own and from morning to night, as from the cradle to the grave, it is but a succession of changes so gentle and easy that we can scarcely mark their progress.
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