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I have passed all my days in London, until I have formed as many and intense local attachments as any of you mountaineers can have done with dead nature.

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
Dead
Attachments
Days
Attachment
Formed
Nature
Locals
Done
Local
Many
Passed
Intense
London

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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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Satire does not look pretty upon a tombstone.
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To be thankful for what we grasp exceeding our proportion is to add hypocrisy to injustice.
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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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No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.
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The greatest pleasure I know, is to do a good action by stealth, and to have it found out by accident.
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The drinking man is never less himself than during his sober intervals.
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Why are we never quite at ease in the presence of a schoolmaster? Because we are conscious that he is not quite at his ease in ours. He is awkward, and out of place in the society of his equals. He comes like Gulliver from among his little people, and he cannot fit the stature of his understanding to yours.
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How I like to be liked, and what I do to be liked!
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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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She unbent her mind afterwards - over a book.
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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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May my last breath be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled in a jest.
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Shakespeare is one of the last books one should like to give up, perhaps the one just before the Dying Service in a large Prayer book.
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I cannot sit and think books think for me.
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Boys are capital fellows in their own way, among their mates but they are unwholesome companions for grown people.
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A poor relation—is the most irrelevant thing in nature.
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The world meets nobody half way.
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Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.
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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?
Charles Lamb