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No one ever regarded the first of January with indifference.

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
First
Years
Time
Nativity
January
Regarded
Indifference
Ever
Firsts

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This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, Theres nothing true but Heaven.
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Coleridge declares that a man cannot have a good conscience who refuses apple dumplings, and I confess that I am of the same opinion.
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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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Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.
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Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea.
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She unbent her mind afterwards - over a book.
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Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam?
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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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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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In the Negro countenance you will often meet with strong traits of benignity. I have felt yearnings of tenderness towards some of these faces.
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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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No work is worse than overwork the mind preys on itself,--the most unwholesome of food.
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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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Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.
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Pain is life - the sharper, the more evidence of life.
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Oh for a tongue to curse the slave Whose treason, like a deadly blight, Comes o'er the councils of the brave, And blasts them in their hour of might!
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Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress.
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The world meets nobody half way.
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My theory is to enjoy life, but my practice is against it.
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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?
Charles Lamb