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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.

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
Purpose
Night
Unconquerable
Must
Tobacco
Going
Realised
World
Smoking
Surely
Leave
Shall

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How sickness enlarges the dimensions of a man's self to himself! Supreme selfishness is inculcated upon him as his only duty.
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Much depends upon when and where you read a book. In the five or six impatient minutes before the dinner is quite ready, who would think of taking up the Faerie Queen for a stopgap, or a volume of Bishop Andrews's Sermons?
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You look wise, pray correct that error.
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There was a little man, and he had a little soul And he said, Little Soul, let us try, try, try!
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For with G. D., to be absent from the body is sometimes (not to speak profanely) to be present with the Lord.
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Positively, the best thing a man can have to do, is nothing, and next to that perhaps — good works.
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In some respects the better a book is, the less it demands from the binding.
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The pilasters reaching down were adorned with a glistering substance (I know not what) under glass (as it seemed), resembling - a homely fancy, but I judged it to be sugar-candy yet to my raised imagination, divested of its homelier qualities, it appeared a glorified candy.
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A book reads the better which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins.
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I even think that, sentimentally, I am disposed to harmony. But organically I am incapable of a tune.
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How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pristine stature! where is now the space, which he occupied so lately, in his own, in the family's eye?
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We were happier when we were poorer, but we were also younger.
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We are nothing less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.
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I can scarce bring myself to believe, that I am admitted to a familiar correspondence, and all the license of friendship, with a man who writes blank verse like Milton.
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Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see another mountain in my life.
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I could never hate anyone I knew.
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We gain nothing by being with such as ourselves. We encourage one another in mediocrity. I am always longing to be with men more excellent than myself.
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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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No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.
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A Persian's heaven is eas'ly made: 'T is but black eyes and lemonade.
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