Jsaa > Jsaa's Quotes

“He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

“Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!”
― Bram Stoker

“I think Professor Angell died because he knew too much, or because he was likely to learn too much. Whether I shall go as he did remains to be seen, for I have learned much now.”
― H.P. Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu

“The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow, nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his prey.”
― William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

“Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please,
With too much spirit to be e'er at ease,
With too much quickness ever to be taught,
With too much thinking to have common thought:
You purchase pain with all that joy can give,
And die of nothing but a rage to live.”
― Alexander Pope, Moral Essays

“For the first twenty years, since yesterday,
I scarce believed thou could'st be gone away;
For forty more, I fed on favors past,
And forty' on hopes, that thou would'st they might last.
Tears drowned one hundred, and sighs blew out two;
A thousand, I did neither think, nor do,
Or not divide, all being one thought of you;
Or, in a thousand more, forget that too.
Yet call not this, long life, but think that I
Am, by being dead, immortal; can ghosts die?”
― John Donne, John Donne: Selected Poems

“You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche

“For all their privileges, their legions of servants, their chauffeur-driven cars, private yachts and planes, they are prisoners of society’s expectations and puppets of the system.”
― Andrew Morton, Diana: Her True Story in Her Own Words

“Those who can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities.”
― Voltaire

“It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.”
― William Ernest Henley, Echoes of Life and Death

“He Is Not Dead

I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead. He is just away.
With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,
He has wandered into an unknown land
And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there.
And you—oh you, who the wildest yearn
For an old-time step, and the glad return,
Think of him faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here.
Think of him still as the same. I say,
He is not dead—he is just away.”
― James Whitcomb Riley

“Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt, use it-don't cheat with it.”
― Ernest Hemingway

“All good and true book-lovers practice the pleasing and improving avocation of reading in bed ... No book can be appreciated until it has been slept with and dreamed over.”
― Eugene Field, The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”
― Edgar Allan Poe

“Your world is as big as you make it.
I know, for I used to abide
In the narrowest nest in a corner,
My wings pressing close to my side.”
― Georgia Douglas Johnson

“The whelp went home, and went to bed.  If he had had any sense of what he had done that night, and had been less of a whelp and more of a brother, he might have turned short on the road, might have gone down to the ill-smelling river that was dyed black, might have gone to bed in it for good and all, and have curtained his head for ever with its filthy waters.”
― Dickens Charles, Hard Times

“As a booty or a spoil, captured, caught, with snare and toil.
Selling pleasure, selling joy, Tantalizing, tortured toy; Tricked and trafficked, mocked and marred, Branded, baffled, scoffed and scarred!

Wander, wander whither, why? Ye who pay while all pass by, Casting stones each at his sin As he spurns in you his kin.

Fools of fortune, pity ye Your bejewelled poverty !

Hounded like a hare at bay, That no coup de grace will slay, Like a bird of broken wing, Wild, defiant, fluttering.

Hither, thither, drearily, On and onward, wearily; Laughing, cursing to defy Stifled sob and surging sigh.”
― Grace Constant Lounsbery, Poems of Revolt, and Satan Unbound

“Timor mortis conturbat me.”
― William Dunbar, The Complete Works

“It is far more seemly
to have thy Studie full of Bookes,
than thy Purse full of money.

”
― John Lyly, Euphues, the Anatomy of Wit