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No one has the least regard for the man with them all, he has been an object of avoidance, suspicion, and aversion but the spark of life within him is curiously separable from himself now, and they have a deep interest in it, probably because it IS life, and they are living and must die.

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
Men
Deep
Avoidance
Life
Probably
Aversion
Least
Spark
Within
Sparks
Dies
Suspicion
Interest
Object
Living
Regard
Separable
Must
Objects
Curiously

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I want to escape from myself. For when I do start up and stare myself seedily in the face, as happens to be my case at present, my blankness is inconceivable--indescribable--my misery amazing.
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But, tears were not the things to find their way to Mr. Bumble's soul his heart was waterproof.
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Great men are seldom over-scrupulous in the arrangement of their attire.
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To conceal anything from those to whom I am attached, is not in my nature. I can never close my lips where I have opened my heart.
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My dear young lady, crime, like death, is not confined to the old and withered alone. The youngest and fairest are too often its chosen victims.
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... The sun does not shine upon this fair earth to meet frowning eyes, depend upon it.
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...and to-morrow looked in my face more steadily than I could look at it
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And yet I love him. I love him so much and so dearly, that when I sometimes think my life may be but a weary one, I am proud of it and glad of it. I am proud and glad to suffer something for him, even though it is of no service to him, and he will never know of it or care for it.
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The broken heart. You think you will die, but you just keep living, day after day after terrible day.
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If I may so express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not merely over head and ears in love with her, but I was saturated through and through. Enough love might have been wrung out of me, metaphorically speaking, to drown anybody in and yet there would have remained enough within me, and all over me, to pervade my entire existence.
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Do not repine, my friends, said Mr. Pecksniff, tenderly. Do not weep for me. It is chronic.
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Poverty and oysters always seem to go together.
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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.
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We changed again, and yet again, and it was now too late and too far to go back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and the world lay spread before me.
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Your tale is of the longest, observed Monks, moving restlessly in his chair. It is a true tale of grief and trial, and sorrow, young man, returned Mr. Brownlow, and such tales usually are if it were one of unmixed joy and happiness, it would be very brief.
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What is your best, your very best, ale a glass? Two pence halfpenny, says the landlord, is the price of the Genuine Stunning Ale. Then, says I, producing the money, just draw me a glass of the Genuine Stunning, if you please, with a good head on it.
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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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