Quotes 1121 till 1140 of 3899.
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He enjoys true leisure who has time to improve his soul's estate.
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He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it.
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He had no special hobbies, but he needed luxury in general of a kind, and especially the luxury of getting things in a hurry, his theory being that everything comes to the man who won't wait.
Tenterhooks (1912) Ch. vii -
He had occasional flashes of silence that made his conversation perfectly delightful.
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He had read much, if one considers his long life; but his contemplation was much more than his reading. He was wont to say that if he had read as much as other men he should have known no more than other men.
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He had scarcely told the lie when his nose, which was already long, grew at once two fingers longer.
Pinocchio (1892) -
He has left off reading altogether, to the great improvement of his originality.
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He has lived for peace, but he died for his principles.
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He has spent his life best who has enjoyed it most. God will take care that we do not enjoy it any more than is good for us.
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He has the common feeling of his profession. He enjoys a statement twice as much if it appears in fine print, and anything that turns up in a footnote... takes on the character of divine revelation.
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He hath consumed a whole night in lying looking to his great toe, about which he hath seen Tartars and Turks, Romans and Carthaginians, fight in his imagination.
Conversations with William Drummond of Hawthornden -
He is greatest whose strength carries up the most hearts by the attraction of his own.
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He is happy whom circumstances suit his temper; but he Is more excellent who suits his temper to any circumstance.
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He is indebted to his memory for his jests and to his imagination for his facts.
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He is most free from danger, who, even when safe, is on his guard.
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He is not affected by the reality of distress touching his heart, but by the showy resemblance of it striking his imagination. He pities the plumage, but forgets the dying bird.
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He is outside of everything, and alien everywhere. He is an aesthetic solitary. His beautiful, light imagination is the wing that on the autumn evening just brushes the dusky window.
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He is quite a good fellow - nobody's enemy but his own.
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