It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.
Category: Charles Dickens
Charles John Huffam Dickens (/ˈtʃɑrlz ˈdɪkɪnz/; 7 February 1812 – 9 June 1870) was an English writer and social critic.
Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death; — the last, much the easiest to bestow, O Guillotine!
Repression is the only lasting philosophy.
A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.
Whatever was required to be done, the Circumlocution Office was beforehand with all the public departments in the art of perceiving – HOW NOT TO DO IT.
Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
“I’ll tell you,” said she, in the same hurried passionate whisper, “what real love is. It is blind devotion, unquestioning self-humiliation, utter submission, trust and belief against yourself and against the whole world, giving up your whole heart and soul to the smiter – as I did!”
In a word, it was impossible for me to separate her, in the past or in the present, from the innermost life of my life.
Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little – exactly as I had done in the brewery yard – and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can’t say which.
…she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine.