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I like you and your book, ingenious Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition 's shown And all that history, much that fiction weaves.

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
Book
Embracing
Much
Shown
Like
Leaves
Historical
Capacious
Tradition
Weaves
Whose
Hone
Fiction
Marrow
History
Ingenious

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No woman dresses below herself from mere caprice.
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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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I cannot sit and think books think for me.
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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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Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.
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If dirt were trumps, what hands you would hold!
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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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The true poet dreams being awake.
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A Persian's heaven is eas'ly made: 'T is but black eyes and lemonade.
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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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There is a pleasure in affecting affectation.
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Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.
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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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Pain is life - the sharper, the more evidence of life.
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Oh call it by some better name, For friendship sounds too cold.
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Half as sober as a judge.
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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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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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And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
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For thy sake, tobacco, I would do anything but die.
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