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History fades into fable fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy the inscription molders from the tablet: the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust?

Washington Irving

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Washington Irving
Age: 76 †
Born: 1783
Born: April 3
Died: 1859
Died: November 28
Author
Biographer
Diplomat
Essayist
Historian
Journalist
Lawyer
Novelist
Playwright
Politician
Writer
New York City
New York
Diedrich Knickerbocker
Geoffrey Crayon
Lauuncelot Langstaff
Written
Fades
Epitaph
Inscription
Fact
Falls
Statue
Tablet
History
Ruins
Fables
Heaps
Fall
Sand
Pedestal
Inscriptions
Facts
Dust
Pyramids
Fable
Character
Characters
Columns
Tablets
Becomes
Statues
Clouded
Doubt
Controversy
Arches
Epitaphs

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From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections.
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Sometimes he spent hours together in the great libraries of Paris, those catacombs of departed authors, rummaging among their hoards of dusty and obsolete works in quest of food for his unhealthy appetite. He was, in a manner, a literary ghoul, feeding in the charnel-house of decayed literature.
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It's a fair wind that blew men to ale.
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There is a healthful hardiness about real dignity that never dreads contact and communion with others however humble.
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There is a certain artificial polish, a commonplace vivacity acquired by perpetually mingling in the beau monde which, in the commerce of world, supplies the place of natural suavity and good-humour, but is purchased at the expense of all original and sterling traits of character.
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Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune but great minds rise above them.
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A mother is the truest friend we have.
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There is no character in the comedy of human life more difficult to play well than that of an old bachelor.
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I have never found, in anything outside of the four walls of my study, an enjoyment equal to sitting at my writing desk with a clean page, a new theme, and a mind awake.
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He who thinks much says but little in proportion to his thoughts. He selects that language which will convey his ideas in the most explicit and direct manner.
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Enthusiasts soon understand each other.
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Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart.
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Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some stomachs but honest good humor is the oil and wine of a merry meeting.
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He who would study nature in its wildness and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice.
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One of the greatest and simplest tools for learning more and growing is doing more.
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[I]n the gloomy month of February.... The Deserts of Arabia are not more dreary and inhospitable than the streets of London at such a time.
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There was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was petticoat government.
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The literary world is made up of little confederacies, each looking upon its own members as the lights of the universe and considering all others as mere transient meteors, doomed to soon fall and be forgotten, while its own luminaries are to shine steadily into immortality.
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Some minds corrode and grow inactive under the loss of personal liberty others grow morbid and irritable but it is the nature of the poet to become tender and imaginitive in the loneliness of confinement. He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody.
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The almighty dollar, that great object of universal devotion.
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