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Their demeanor is invariably morose, sullen, clownish and repulsive. I should think there is not, on the face of the earth, a people so entirely destitute of humor, vivacity, or the capacity for enjoyment.

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
Face
Sullen
Faces
Destitute
Earth
Invariably
Think
Sarcastic
Thinking
Enjoyment
Vivacity
People
Entirely
Morose
Capacity
Demeanor
Humor
Repulsive

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The white face of the winter day came sluggishly on, veiled in a frosty mist and the shadowy ships in the river slowly changed to black substances and the sun, blood-red on the eastern marshes behind dark masts and yards, seemed filled with the ruins of a forest it had set on fire.
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My comfort is, said Susan, looking back at Mr. Dombey, that I have told a piece of truth this day which ought to have been told long before and can't be told too often or too plain...
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... The sun does not shine upon this fair earth to meet frowning eyes, depend upon it.
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Ah, Miss, hope is an excellent thing for such as has the spirits to bear it! said Mrs Wickam, shaking her head. My own spirits is not equal to it, but I don't owe it any grudge. I envys them that is so blest!
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Spring is the time of year when it is summer in the sun and winter in the shade.
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Night, like a giant, fills the church, from pavement to roof, and holds dominion through the silent hours. Pale dawn again comes peeping through the windows: and, giving place to day, sees night withdraw into the vaults, and follows it, and drives it out, and hides among the dead.
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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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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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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.
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How beautiful you are! You are more beautiful in anger than in repose. I don't ask you for your love give me yourself and your hatred give me yourself and that pretty rage give me yourself and that enchanting scorn it will be enough for me.
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Hours are golden links--God's tokens reaching heaven.
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Affery, like greater people, had always been right in her facts, and always wrong in the theories she deduced from them.
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It is because I think so much of warm and sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded.
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Regrets are the natural property of grey hairs.
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... Waiter! raw beef-steak for the gentleman's eye,-nothing like raw beef-steak for a bruise, sir cold lamp-post very good, but lamp-post inconvenient-damned odd standing in the open street half-an-hour, with your eye against a lamp.
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The heavy rain beat down the tender branches of vine and jessamine, and trampled on them in its fury and when the lightning gleamed, it showed the tearful leaves shivering and cowering together at the window, and tapping at it urgently, as if beseeching to be sheltered from the dismal night.
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Cheerfulness and contentment are great beautifiers, and are famous preservers of good looks.
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Every man, however obscure, however far removed from the general recognition, is one of a group of men impressible for good, and impressible for evil, and it is in the nature of things that he cannot really improve himself without in some degree improving other men.
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The beating of my heart was so violent and wild that I felt as if my life were breaking from me.
Charles Dickens