Quicquid agunt homines, votum, timor, ira, voluptas, / Gaudia, discursus, nostri est farrago libelli=--Whatever men are engaged in, their wishes and fear, anger, pleasures, joys, runnings to and fro, form the medley of my book.
Respect us human, and relieve us poor.
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.
Dispel this cloud, the light of Heaven restore; Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more.
Thank you for nothing.
And had a face like a blessing.
Be wisely worldly, be not worldly wise.
For solitude sometimes is best society, And short retirement urges sweet return.
Whatever bit of a wise man's work is honestly and benevolently done, that bit is his book or his piece of art.
Man alone at the very moment of his birth, cast naked upon the naked earth, does she abandon to cries and lamentations.
Anaximander says that men were first produced in fishes, and when they were grown up and able to help themselves were thrown up, and so lived upon the land.
A gentle knight was pricking on the plaine.
Our fruitless labours mourn, And only rich in barren fame return.
You have there hit the nail on the head.
Joh. Mayor, in the first book of his "History of Scotland," contends much for the wholesomeness of oaten bread; it was objected to him, then living at Paris, that his countrymen fed on oats and base grain. . . . And yet Wecker out of Galen calls it horse-meat, and fitter juments than men to feed on.
Not heaven itself upon the past has power; But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
Pan himself, The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god!
The first in banquets, but the last in fight.
I can tell you, honest friend, what to believe: believe life; it teaches better than book and orator.
There is nothing to write about, you say. Well, then, write and let me know just this,--that there _is_ nothing to write about; or tell me in the good old style if you are well. That 's right. I am quite well.
I will take my corporal oath on it.
Thy rare gold ring of verse (the poet praised) Linking our England to his Italy.
At shut of evening flowers.
Daily life is more instructive than the most effective book.= _Goethe._ [Greek: daitos eises]--An equal diet. _Hom._ [Greek: Dakry' adakrya]--Tearless tears.
From the moment I picked up your book until I put it down, I was convulsed with laughter. Some day I intend reading it.
If we desire to secure peace…it must be known that we are at all times ready for war. [cf. Vegetius: Qui desiderat pacem praeparet bellum (“Whosoever desires peace, let him prepare for war.”) [ Epitoma Rei Militaris , prologue to book three] Farewell Address , 1796.]
Homo unius libri=--A man of one book. _Thomas Aquinas' definition of a learned man._
She moves a goddess, and she looks a queen.
Corn is the sinews of war.
On a sudden open fly, With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.
The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy.
The object of my book is to prove that the ocean, with the other seas, by means of the sun causes our world to shine like the moon and to appear as a star to other worlds; and this I will prove.
It seems the part of wisdom.
Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, In every gesture dignity and love.
Go, little booke! go, my little tragedie!
In discourse more sweet; For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense. Others apart sat on a hill retir'd, In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate, Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute; And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost.
O, if this were seen, / The happiest youth--viewing his progress through / What perils past, what crosses to ensue--/ Would shut the book and sit him down and die.= 2
Every reader reads himself out of the book that he reads.
From the moment I picked your book up until I laid it down, I convulsed with laughter. Someday I intend on reading it.
And for our country 't is a bliss to die.
_Antiquity of the Jews._--What difference there is between book and book. I am not surprised that the Greeks made the Iliad, nor the Egyptians and the Chinese their histories.
Just are the ways of Heaven: from Heaven proceed The woes of man; Heaven doom'd the Greeks to bleed,-- A theme of future song!
An outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace.
By labour and intent study (which I take to be my portion in this life), joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave something so written to after times as they should not willingly let it die.
Praise from a friend, or censure from a foe, Are lost on hearers that our merits know.
If you have enough book space, I don't want to talk to you.
So saying, with despatchful looks in haste She turns, on hospitable thoughts intent.
Earth felt the wound; and Nature from her seat, Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe That all was lost.
Spires whose "silent finger points to heaven."
Incens'd with indignation Satan stood Unterrify'd, and like a comet burn'd That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge In th' arctic sky, and from his horrid hair Shakes pestilence and war.
Hither, as to their fountain, other stars Repairing, in their golden urns draw light.
The growing drama has outgrown such toys Of simulated stature, face, and speech: It also peradventure may outgrow The simulation of the painted scene, Boards, actors, prompters, gaslight, and costume, And take for a worthier stage the soul itself, Its shifting fancies and celestial lights, With all its grand orchestral silences To keep the pauses of its rhythmic sounds.
Many-headed multitude.
A classic is a book that has never finished saying what it has to say. ― Italo Calvino
His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast Of some great ammiral were but a wand, He walk'd with to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle.
When you will have thoroughly mastered perspective and have learnt by heart the parts and forms of objects, strive when you go about to observe. Note and consider the circumstances and the actions or men, as they talk, dispute, laugh or fight together, and not only the behaviour of the men themselves, but that of the bystanders who separate them or look on at these things; and make a note of them, in this way, with slight marks in your little note-book. And you should always carry this note-book with you, and it should be of coloured paper, so that what you {109} write may not be rubbed out; but (when it is used up) change the old for a new one, since these things should not be rubbed out, but preserved with great care, because such is the infinity of the forms and circumstances of objects, that the memory is incapable of retaining them; wherefore keep these sketches as your guides and masters.
Their rising all at once was as the sound Of thunder heard remote.
A broad and ample road, whose dust is gold, And pavement stars,--as stars to thee appear Seen in the galaxy, that milky way Which nightly as a circling zone thou seest Powder'd with stars.
Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free! They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
So build we up the being that we are.
And what so tedious as a twice-told tale.
Here is the devil-and-all to pay.
Sabean odours from the spicy shore Of Araby the Blest.
Pleas'd me, long choosing and beginning late.
You are to come to your study as to the table, with a sharp appetite, whereby that which you read may the better digest. He that has no stomach to his book will very hardly thrive upon it.
A gen'rous heart repairs a sland'rous tongue.
Till Peter's keys some christen'd Jove adorn, And Pan to Moses lends his pagan horn.
Time elaborately thrown away.
Sorrows remember'd sweeten present joy.
Happy the people whose annals are blank in History's book.
A pillar'd shade High overarch'd, and echoing walks between.
That large utterance of the early gods!
What a sense of security is in an old book which Time has criticised for us!
To be weak is miserable, Doing or suffering.
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness — Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
A wilderness of sweets.
True friendship's laws are by this rule exprest,-- Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.
I like you and your book, ingenious Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition 's shown; And all that history, much that fiction weaves.
Show thy servant the light of thy countenance.
The book containing this law, the first of all laws, is itself the most ancient book in the world, those of Homer, Hesiod and others dating from six or seven hundred years later.
Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old.
Stretch'd on the rack of a too easy chair, And heard thy everlasting yawn confess The pains and penalties of idleness.
Men to be of one mind in an house.
In indolent vacuity of thought.
How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams, / With its allusions, aspirations, dreams! / Book of beginnings, story without end, / Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend.
There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
David Grann’s book The Lost City of Z), of the University of Florida,
With that she dasht her on the lippes, So dyed double red: Hard was the heart that gave the blow, Soft were those lips that bled.
Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,-- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
For we by conquest, of our soveraine might, And by eternall doome of Fate's decree, Have wonne the Empire of the Heavens bright.
Yet taught by time, my heart has learn'd to glow For others' good, and melt at others' woe.
Entire affection hateth nicer hands.
What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers.
Words that wise Bacon or brave Raleigh spoke.
Property has its duties as well as its rights.
It has become quite a common proverb that in wine there is truth.
Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.
Printer's ink has been running a race against gunpowder these many, many years. Ink is handicapped, in a way, because you can blow up a man with gunpowder in half a second, while it may take twenty years to blow him up with a book. But the gunpowder destroys itself along with its victim, while a book can keep on exploding for centuries.
Like leaves on trees the race of man is found,-- Now green in youth, now withering on the ground; Another race the following spring supplies: They fall successive, and successive rise.
Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate, / All but the page prescribed--their present state.
Two urns by Jove's high throne have ever stood,-- The source of evil one, and one of good.
Such and so various are the tastes of men.
Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature.
Thought the moon was made of green cheese.
I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things that she didn't already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race-that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.
Why do you lead me a wild-goose chase?
They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet Quaff immortality and joy.
How prone to doubt, how cautious are the wise!
Ill can he rule the great that cannot reach the small.
Let ignorance talk as it will, learning has its value.
Must I thus leave thee, Paradise?--thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades?
States as great engines move slowly.
Tools may be animate as well as inanimate; for instance, a ship’s captain uses a lifeless rudder, but a living man for watch; for a servant is, from the point of view of his craft, categorized as one of its tools. So any piece of property can be regarded as a tool enabling a man to live, and his property is an assemblage of such tools; a slave is a sort of living piece of property; and like any other servant is a tool in charge of other tools. For suppose that every tool we had could perform its task, either at our bidding or itself perceiving the need, and if—like the statues made by D?dalus or the tripods of Heph?stus, of which the poet says that “self-moved they enter the assembly of the gods” — shuttles in a loom could fly to and fro and a plectrum play a lyre all self-moved, then master-craftsmen would have no need of servants nor masters of slaves. [ The Politics . Book I, Chapter iv, §1253b23.]
Religion may be learned on Sunday, but it is lived in the week-day's work. The torch of religion may be lit in the church, but it does its burning in the shop and on the street. Religion seeks its life in prayer, but it lives its life in deeds. It is planted in the closet, but it does its growing out in the world. It plumes itself for flight in songs of praise, but its actual flights are in works of love. It resolves and meditates on faithfulness as it reads its Christian lesson in the Book of Truth, but "faithful is that faithful does." It puts its armor on in all the aids and helps of the sanctuary as its dressing-room, but it combats for the right, the noble, and the good in all the activities of practical existence, and its battle ground is the whole broad field of life.--_John Doughty._
Where'er he mov'd, the goddess shone before.
High-erected thoughts seated in the heart of courtesy.
Speak the truth and shame the Devil.
How gladly would I meet Mortality my sentence, and be earth Insensible! how glad would lay me down As in my mother's lap!
One eare it heard, at the other out it went.
In the adversity of our best friends we often find something that is not exactly displeasing. The opinion of the strongest is always the best.
Isn't it odd how much fatter a book gets when you've read it several times?" Mo had said..."As if something were left between the pages every time you read it. Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smells...and then, when you look at the book again many years later, you find yourself there, too, a slightly younger self, slightly different, as if the book had preserved you like a pressed flower...both strange and familiar.
Rather than be less, Car'd not to be at all.
Socrates . . . Whom well inspir'd the oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men.
Macaulay is like a book in breeches. . . . He has occasional flashes of silence, that make his conversation perfectly delightful.
He tried the luxury of doing good.
He helde about him alway, out of drede, A world of folke.
To love, cherish, and to obey.
Fortune leaves always some door open to come at a remedy.
I am right sorry for your heavinesse.
A green old age, unconscious of decays, That proves the hero born in better days.
People should not be able to say of a man, he is a mathematician, or a preacher, or eloquent, but he is a gentleman; that universal quality alone pleases me.--When you think of a man's book as soon as you see himself, it is a bad sign. I would rather that none of his qualities should be recognised till you meet them, or have occasion to avail yourself of them. _Ne quid nimis_, for fear some one quality gain the mastery and stamp the man. Let not people think of him as an orator, unless oratory be in question, then let them think of it.
I rarely read any Latin, Greek, German, Italian, sometimes not a French book, in the original, which I can procure in a good version. I like to be beholden to the great metropolitan English speech, the sea which receives tributaries from every region under heaven. I should as soon think of swimming across Charles River when I wish to go to Boston, as of reading all my books in originals when I have them rendered for me in my mother tongue.
The dew of thy birth is of the womb of the morning.
Who will not mercie unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
Send them home as merry as crickets.
Any nose May ravage with impunity a rose.
Ye men of gloom and austerity, who paint the face of Infinite Benevolence with an eternal frown, read in the everlasting book, wide open to your view, the lesson it would teach. Its pictures are not in black and sombre hues, but bright and glowing tints; its music--save when ye drown it--is not in sighs and groans, but songs and cheerful sounds. Listen to the million voices in the summer air, and find one dismal as your own.
Poverty is the mother of crime. [ Variae , Book IX.]
To do my duty in that state of life unto which it shall please God to call me.
Our business in the field of fight Is not to question, but to prove our might.
Were I so tall to reach the pole, Or grasp the ocean with my span, I must be measured by my soul: The mind 's the standard of the man.
There are few efforts more conducive to humility than that of the translator trying to communicate an incommunicable beauty. Yet, unless we do try, something unique and never surpassed will cease to exist except in the libraries of a few inquisitive book lovers.
Silence, ye wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, And makes night hideous;--answer him, ye owls!
Now night descending, the proud scene was o'er, But lived in Settle's numbers one day more.
All the world knows me in my book, and my book in me.
It is not strength, but art, obtains the prize, And to be swift is less than to be wise. 'T is more by art than force of num'rous strokes.
The work under our labour grows, Luxurious by restraint.
Religion blushing, veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires. Nor public flame nor private dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire Chaos is restor'd, Light dies before thy uncreating word; Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall, And universal darkness buries all.
Roses red and violets blew, And all the sweetest flowres that in the forrest grew.
Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.
We thinke no greater blisse then such To be as be we would, When blessed none but such as be The same as be they should.
Another, yet the same.
The industrial economy which divides society absolutely into two portions, the payers of wages and the receivers of them, the first counted by thousands and the last by millions, is neither fit for, nor capable of, indefinite duration: and the possibility of changing this system for one of combination without dependence, and unity of interest instead of organized hostility, depends altogether upon the future developments of the Partnership principle. [ Principles of Political Economy , Book V, Chapter IX, §5.]
For never, never, wicked man was wise.
Classic' - a book which people praise and don't read. ― Mark Twain
Among unequals what society Can sort, what harmony, or true delight?
Let every man mind his own business.
There is a book, who runs may read, / Which heavenly truth imparts, / And all the love its scholars need, / Pure eyes and Christian hearts. / The works of God above, below, / Within us, and around, / Are pages in that book, to show / How God Himself is found.
Forgetful youth! but know, the Power above With ease can save each object of his love; Wide as his will extends his boundless grace.
_The sincerity of the Jews._--They preserve with faithfulness and zeal the book in which Moses declares that they have been all their life ungrateful to God, and that he knows they will be still more so after his death; that he therefore calls heaven and earth to witness against them, and that he has taught them enough.
All learned, and all drunk!
And so on to the end of the chapter.
Words sweet as honey from his lips distill'd.
The citations of pages are from the book _Pugio_.
One writer, for instance, excels at a plan or a title-page, another works away the body of the book, and a third is a dab at an index.
From envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness.
Led by my hand, he saunter'd Europe round, And gather'd every vice on Christian ground.
A book about a lady knight with purple eyes and a passion for justice—one of her few treasured possessions—lay near the window. So far she’d paid Amanda at the Green Inn twice to read it to her. It was that precious. With her mind made up to leave Vaneis, she packed the three dresses she owned, the scarf, the book, some herbs for soap mix, and thirty shillings for the road in her satchel. The next morning, she made sure to pay the innkeeper five shillings for her month's rent. She filled a small rucksack full of food for her journey and left the inn with a smile on her face. Once outside, Ciardis squinted, looking up and down the caravan line. There were six wagons attached to huraks – large, ponderous beasts that looked like oxen with claws. The huraks were all clearly anxious to go as they snorted and pawed the fresh snow with the three dagger-shaped claws on each foot. You and me both, friend. She clutched her two cloth bags and stared around for Lady Serena, trying not to seem too obvious. "All riders up!" rang the call down the line. Ciardis gave up her nonchalant look in favor of panic and began to search frantically. She didn't see Lady Serena anywhere. What if it had all been a cruel joke?
To happy convents bosom'd deep in vines, Where slumber abbots purple as their wines.
Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations who had else, Like kindred drops, been mingled into one.
The strongest and the fiercest spirit That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair.
Others made a virtue of necessity.
Not one word of any book is readable by you, except so far as your mind is one with its author's; and not merely his words like your words, but his thoughts like your thoughts.
Give me again my hollow tree, A crust of bread, and liberty.
Plain as a nose in a man's face.
For hope is but the dream of those that wake.
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day Whose conquering ray May chase these fogs; Sweet Phosphor, bring the day! Sweet Phosphor, bring the day! Light will repay The wrongs of night; Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!
Whenever you read a good book, somewhere in the world a door opens to allow in more light. ― Vera Nazarian
Her berth was of the wombe of morning dew, And her conception of the joyous Prime.
How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures; nor cloud, or speck, nor stain, Breaks the serene of heaven: In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark blue depths; Beneath her steady ray The desert circle spreads Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. How beautiful is night!
And while the lamp holds out to burn, The vilest sinner may return.
Servant of God, well done; well hast thou fought The better fight.
We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done.
'T is true, 't is certain; man though dead retains Part of himself: the immortal mind remains.
The iron entered into his soul.
Well, because my name is Amy Cross, and I read romance novels – proudly. I don't care if a hundred people hear me snort with laughter, flush at the embarrassing connotations of black and white words, or flash naked men on the front covers of my reads. Fine literature can only be defined by how hot the sex scenes are. Well, at least in my book.
In naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely than Pandora.
There are some readers who have never read an essay on taste; and if they take my advice they never will; for they can no more improve their taste by so doing than they could improve their appetite or digestion by studying a cookery-book.--_Southey._
A book may be as great a thing as a battle.
So, when a raging fever burns, We shift from side to side by turns; And 't is a poor relief we gain To change the place, but keep the pain.
With centric and eccentric scribbled o'er, Cycle and epicycle, orb in orb.
The last thing that we find in making a book is to know what we must put first.
I know only one thing sweeter than making a book, and that is to project one.
Fast-anchor'd isle.
In the real world, the tests are all open book.
Sure as a gun.
A book for children, like the myths and folktales that tend to slide into it, is really a blueprint for dealing with life. For that reason, it might have a happy ending, because nobody ever solved a problem while believing it was hopeless. It might put the aims and the solution unrealistically high – in the same way that folktales tend to be about kings and queens – but this is because it is better to aim for the moon and get halfway there than just to aim for the roof and get halfway upstairs.