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Were I Diogenes, I would not move out of a kilderkin into a hogshead, though the first had had nothing but small beer in it, and the second reeked claret.

Charles Lamb

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Charles Lamb
Age: 59 †
Born: 1775
Born: February 10
Died: 1834
Died: December 27
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Writer
London
England
Nothing
Beer
First
Second
Would
Move
Small
Though
Moving
Home
Diogenes
Firsts
Claret

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The teller of a mirthful tale has latitude allowed him. We are content with less than absolute truth.
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It is with some violation of the imagination that we conceive of an actor belonging to the relations of private life, so closely do we identify these persons in our mind with the characters which they assume upon the stage.
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This very night I am going to leave off tobacco! Surely there must be some other world in which this unconquerable purpose shall be realised.
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A babe is fed with milk and praise.
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I have done all that I came into this world to do. I have worked task work, and have the rest of the day to myself.
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And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
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No woman dresses below herself from mere caprice.
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I counsel thee, shut not thy heart, nor thy library.
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Anything awful makes me laugh. I misbehaved once at a funeral.
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To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.
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Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea.
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The going away of friends does not make the remainder more precious. It takes so much from them as there was a common link. A. B. and C. make a party. A. dies. B. not only loses A. but all A.'s part in C. C. loses A.'s part in B., and so the alphabet sickens by subtraction of interchangeables.
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May my last breath be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled in a jest.
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The measure of choosing well, is, whether a man likes and finds good in what he has chosen.
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My only books Were woman's looks,- And folly 's all they 've taught me.
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The only true time which a man can properly call his own, is that which he has all to himself the rest, though in some sense he may be said to live it, is other people's time, not his.
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The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.
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How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me all are departed All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
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I have passed all my days in London, until I have formed as many and intense local attachments as any of you mountaineers can have done with dead nature.
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I have sat through an Italian opera, til, for sheer pain, and inexplicable anguish, I have rushed out into the noisiest places of the crowded street, to solace myself with sounds which I was not obliged to follow and get rid of the distracting torment of endless, fruitless, barren attention!
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