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-Why don't you cry again, you little wretch? -Because I'll never cry for you again.
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
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Wretch
Cry
Littles
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Never
More quotes by Charles Dickens
You have no idea what it is to have anybody wonderful fond of you, unless you have been got down and rolled upon by the lonely feelings that I have mentioned as having once got the better of me.
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Battledore and shuttlecock's a wery good game, vhen you an't the shuttlecock and two lawyers the battledores, in which case it gets too exciting to be pleasant.
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She had gained a reputation for beauty, and (which is often another thing) was beautiful.
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Regrets are the natural property of grey hairs.
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'Mind and matter,' said the lady in the wig, 'glide swift into the vortex if immensity. Howls the sublime, and softly sleeps the calm Ideal, in the whispering chambers of Imagination.'
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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.
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Loves and Cupids took to flight afraid, and Martyrdom had no such torment in its painted history of suffering.
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Well, said my aunt, this is his boy - his son. He would be as like his father as it's possible to be, if he was not so like his mother, too.
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Love, though said to be afflicted with blindness, is a vigilant watchman.
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The habit of paying compliments kept a man's tongue oiled without any expense.
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The haggard aspect of the little old man was wonderfully suited to the place he might have groped among old churches and tombs and deserted houses and gathered all the spoils with his own hands. There was nothing in the whole collection but was in keeping with himself nothing that looked older or more worn than he.
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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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His wardrobe was extensive-very extensive-not strictly classical perhaps, not quite new, nor did it contain any one garment made precisely after the fashion of any age or time, but everything was more or less spangled and what can be prettier than spangles!
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He was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset
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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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Everything that Mr Smallweed's grandfather ever put away in his mind was a grub at first, and is a grub at last. In all his life he has never bred a single butterfly.
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Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, Right Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with Heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.
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An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror.
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Every traveler has a home of his own, and he learns to appreciate it the more from his wandering.
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Drink with me, my dear, said Mr. Weller. Put your lips to this here tumbler, and then I can kiss you by deputy.
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