Quote

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.

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
White
Behind
Substance
Yards
Sluggishly
Black
Changed
Red
Eastern
Frosty
Nature
Blood
Winter
Forest
Masts
Fire
Rivers
Ruins
Veiled
Came
Seemed
Slowly
Shadowy
Dark
Sun
Ships
Marshes
Face
Filled
River
Substances
Faces
Behinds
Forests
Mist

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When we have done our very, very best, papa, and that is not enough, then I think the right time must have come for asking help of others.
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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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Without strong affection, and humanity of heart, and gratitude to that Being whose code is mercy, and whose great attribute is benevolence to all things that breathe, true happiness can never be attained.
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Think now and then that there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you.
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Although a man may lose a sense of his own importance when he is a mere unit among a busy throng, all utterly regardless of him, it by no means follows that he can dispossess himself, with equal facility, of a very strong sense of the importance and magnitude of his cares.
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... The sun does not shine upon this fair earth to meet frowning eyes, depend upon it.
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In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and its going.
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Her heart-is given him, with all its love and truth. She would joyfully die with him, or, better than that, die for him. She knows he has failings, but she thinks they have grown up through his being like one cast away, for the want of something to trust in, and care for, and think well of.
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Tongue well that's a wery good thing when it an't a woman.
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A multitude of people and yet solitude.
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A commission of haberdashers could alone have reported what the rest of her poor dress was made of, but it had a strong general resemblance to seaweed, with here and there a gigantic tea-leaf. Her shawl looked particularly like a tea-leaf after long infusion.
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the sight of me is good for sore eyes
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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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Its matter was not new to me, but was presented in a new aspect. It shook me in my habit - the habit of nine-tenths of the world - of believing that all was right about me, because I was used to it.
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I fear your kind and open communication, which has rendered me more painfully conscious of my own defects, has not improved me, sighed Kate.
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She's a very charming and delightful creature, quoth Mr. Robert Sawyer, in reply and has only one fault that I know of, Ben. It happens, unfortunately, that that single blemish is a want of taste. She don't like me.
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The year end brings no greater pleasure then the opportunity to express to you season's greetings and good wishes. May your holidays and new year be filled with joy.
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That glorious vision of doing good is so often the sanguine mirage of so many good minds.
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The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home together and to rest in her bosom.
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May not the complaint, that common people are above their station, often take its rise in the fact of uncommon people being below theirs?
Charles Dickens