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Can we ring the bells backward? Can we unlearn the arts that pretend to civilize, and then burn the world? There is a march of science but who shall beat the drums for its retreat?

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
Beats
Ring
Shall
Burn
Pretend
Civilize
Science
March
Unlearn
Art
Rings
Drums
World
Arts
Backward
Beat
Retreat
Accounts
Bells

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There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.
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Don't introduce me to that man! I want to go on hating him, and I can't hate a man whom I know.
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Think what you would have been now, if instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history!
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A presentation copy, reader,-if haply you are yet innocent of such favours-is a copy of a book which does not sell, sent you by the author.
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Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade.
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Not many sounds in life, and I include all urban and all rural sounds, exceed in interest a knock at the door.
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The world meets nobody half way.
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I could never hate anyone I knew.
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How I like to be liked, and what I do to be liked!
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The English writer, Charles Lamb, said one day: I hate that man. But you don't know him. Of course, I don't, said Lamb. Do you think I could possibly hate a man I know?
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You may derive thoughts from others your way of thinking, the mould in which your thoughts are cast, must be your own.
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Anything awful makes me laugh. I misbehaved once at a funeral.
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The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion.
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The vices of some men are magnificent.
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Not if I know myself at all.
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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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A man cannot have a pure mind who refuses apple dumplings.
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Rags, which are the reproach of poverty, are the beggar's robes, and graceful insignia of his profession, his tenure, his full dress, the suit in which he is expected to show himself in public.
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It is well if the good man himself does not feel his devotions a little clouded, those foggy sensuous steams mingling with and polluting the pure altar surface.
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The true poet dreams being awake.
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