Charles Lamb
Charles Lamb
Charles Lambwas an English writer and essayist, best known for his Essays of Elia and for the children's book Tales from Shakespeare, which he produced with his sister, Mary Lamb...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionChildren's Author
Date of Birth10 February 1775
music thinking tunes
I even think that, sentimentally, I am disposed to harmony. But organically I am incapable of a tune.
reading book thinking
I cannot sit and think; books think for me.
fear cheer thinking
Thus, when the lamp that lighted The traveller at first goes out, He feels awhile benighted, And looks around in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing, By cloudless starlight on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering As that light which Heaven sheds.
thinking wife childhood
Think what you would have been now, if instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history!
time science thinking
Nothing puzzles me more than time and space; and yet nothing troubles me less, as I never think about them.
book thinking i-can
Books think for me. I can read anything which I call a book.
reading thinking walking
When I am not walking, I am reading. I cannot sit and think.
hate men thinking
The English writer, Charles Lamb, said one day: "I hate that man." "But you don't know him." "Of course, I don't," said Lamb. "Do you think I could possibly hate a man I know?"
love sweet thinking
'T is sweet to think that where'er we rove We are sure to find something blissful and dear; And that when we 're far from the lips we love, We 've but to make love to the lips we are near.
thinking may way
You may derive thoughts from others; your way of thinking, the mould in which your thoughts are cast, must be your own.
book men thinking
I love to lose myself in other men's minds.... Books think for me.
half searching transcend
Truths, which transcend the searching School-men's vein, / And half had staggered that stout Stagirite.
beauty reality
Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.
wall tired air
I grow ominously tired of official confinement. Thirty years have I served the Philistines, and my neck is not subdued to the yoke. You don't know how wearisome it is to breathe the air of four pent walls without relief day after day, all the golden hours of the day between ten and four without ease or interposition ... these pestilential clerk-faces always in one's dish. O for a few years between the grave and the desk!