Cute Literature Quotes

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Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean towards each other, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land.

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Dark, dark! The horror of darkness, like a shroud, wraps me and bears me on through mist and cloud.

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Death destroys a man: the idea of Death saves him.

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Deep, unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state.

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Do not worry about the incarnation of ideas. If you are a poet, your works will contain them without your knowledge — they will be both moral and national if you follow your inspiration freely.

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Do we not wile away moments of inanity or fatigued waiting by repeating some trivial movement or sound, until the repetition has bred a want, which is incipient habit?

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Dombey and Son had often dealt in hides, but never in hearts. They left that fancy ware to boys and girls, and boarding-schools and books. Mr. Dombey would have reasoned: That a matrimonial alliance with himself must, in the nature of things, be gratifying and honourable to any woman of common sense. That the hope of giving birth to a new partner in such a house, could not fail to awaken a glorious and stirring ambition in the breast of the least ambitious of her sex.

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Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great arm-chair by the bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a little basket bedstead, carefully disposed on a low settee immediately in front of the fire and close to it, as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin, and it was essential to toast him brown while he was very new.

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Elinor was to be the comforter of others in her own distresses . . .

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English literature is a kind of training in social ethics. English trains you to handle a body of information in a way that is conducive to action.

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Every man”s memory is his private literature.

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Every one wanted to say so much that no one said anything in particular.

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Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.

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Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest — Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

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Five miles meandering with mazy motion, Through dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank the tumult to a lifeless ocean: And ‘mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!

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For a novelist, a given historic situation is an anthropologic laboratory in which he explores his basic question: What is human existence?

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For whatever is truly wondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books.- Herman Melville

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For, as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest, ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some few green sprouts, to welcome such glad-hearted visitants . . .

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For, what other dungeon is so dark as one’s own heart! What jailer so inexorable as one’s self!

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From the hour of the invention of printing, books, and not kings, were to rule the world. Weapons forged in the mind, keen-edged, and brighter than a sunbeam, were to supplant the sword and battle-axe.


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