Quote

my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

Robert Louis Stevenson

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Robert Louis Stevenson
Age: 44 †
Born: 1850
Born: November 13
Died: 1894
Died: December 3
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Short Story Writer
Songwriter
Writer
Edinburgh
Scotland
Robert Lewis Balfour Stevenson
Robert Luis Stivensoni
Shih-ti-wen-sheng
Stivenson
Robert Loui Sitivensin
Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson
Robert Lui Stivenson
RL Stivenson
RL Stevenson
RLS
Head
Stayed
Home
Asleep
Littles
Lazy
Little
Bed
Self
Fast
Like
Shadow
Behinds
Arrant
Behind
Sleepy

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It is perhaps a more fortunate destiny to have a taste for collecting shells than to be born a millionaire.
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It takes hard writing to make easy reading.
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Things looked at patiently from one side after another generally end by showing a side that is beautiful.
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Children are certainly too good to be true.
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Had be been Shakespeare, he would then have written Troilus and Cressidato brand the offending sex but being only a little dog, he began to bite them.
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I know what happiness is, for I have done good work.
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Some people swallow the universe like a pill they travel on through the world, like smiling images pushed from behind.
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When a torrent sweeps a man against a boulder, you must expect him to scream, and you need not be surprised if the scream is sometimes a theory.
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We should strive to go on in fortune and misfortune like a clock during a thunderstorm.
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The little rift between the sexes is astonishingly widened by simply teaching one set of catchwords to the girls and another to the boys.
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But even if we take matrimony at its lowest, even if we regard it as no more than a sort of friendship recognised by the police, there must be degrees in the freedom and sympathy realised, and some principle to guide simple folk in their selection.
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Being happy enables you to be free from domination by the outside world.
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Under the strain of this continually impending doom and by the sleeplessness to which I now condemned myself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, languidly weak both in body and mind, and solely occupied by one thought: the horror of my other self.
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We advance in years somewhat in the manner of an invading army in a barren land the age that we have reached, as the saying goes, we but hold with an outpost, and still keep open communications with the extreme rear and first beginnings of the march.
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There is no progress whatever. Everything is just the same as it was thousands, and tens of thousands, of years ago. The outward form changes. The essence does not change.
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All sorts of allowances are made for the illusions of youth, and none, or almost none for the disenchantment of age.
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Go, little book, and wish to all Flowers in the garden, meat in the hall, A bin of wine, a spice of wit, A house with lawns enclosing it, A living river by the door, A nightingale in the sycamore!
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We look for some reward of our endeavors and are disappointed that not success, not happiness, not even peace of conscience, crowns our ineffectual efforts to do well. Our frailties are invincible, our virtues barren the battle goes sore against us to the going down of the sun.
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Bright is the ring of words When the right man rings them, Fair the fall of songs When the singer sings them. Still they are carolled and said - On wings they are carried - After the singer is dead And the maker buried.
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