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We do not go to the theatre like our ancestors, to escape from the pressure of reality, so much as to confirm our experience of it.

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
Pressure
Experience
Reality
Much
Confirm
Like
Ancestors
Ancestor
Escape
Theatre

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Philanthropy, like charity, must begin at home.
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May my last breath be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled in a jest.
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How I like to be liked, and what I do to be liked!
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Tis unpleasant to meet a beggar. It is painful to deny him and, if you relieve him, it is so much out of your pocket.
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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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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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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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Of all sound of all bells... most solemn and touching is the peal which rings out the Old Year.
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Pain is life - the sharper, the more evidence of life.
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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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We all have some taste or other, of too ancient a date to admit of our remembering it was an acquired one.
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Not if I know myself at all.
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Dream not ... of having tasted all the grandeur and wildness of fancy till you have gone mad!
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Is the world all grown up? Is childhood dead? Or is there not in the bosom of the wisest and the best some of the child's heart left, to respond to its earliest enchantments?
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English physicians kill you, the French let you die.
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Books think for me. I can read anything which I call a book.
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Asparagus inspires gentle thoughts.
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The vices of some men are magnificent.
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To sigh, yet feel no pain To weep, yet scarce know why To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by.
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By myself walking, To myself talking.
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