E. V. Lucas

The man who is so painstakingly cautious about doing his own body no harm seldom does anything for anyone else.

The French never allow a distinguished son of France to lack a statue.

I should have remembered that black is the colour of France. Amusing that the typical figure of that country in so many people's imagination is a saucy girl with little or nothing on, whereas in reality it is an old woman in mourning.

People in hotels strike no roots. The French phrase for chronic hotel guests even says so: they are called dwellers sur la branche.

Human nature is rarely so amusing as when trying to get a house off its hands. Women at this task can be untruthful enough, but their untruth lacks the infusion of candour which a skilful male liar can introduce.

The trouble is that really wanting things is so rare. It's a lukewarm world!

The truth is the only thing worth having, and, in a civilized life, like ours, where so many risks are removed, facing it is almost the only courageous thing left to do.

Suzanne could not read a word, but the last atom of flavour was conserved in every dish that she sent to table; and what is literature compared with cooking? One is shadow and the other is substance.

I have noticed that the people who are late are often so much jollier than the people who have to wait for them.

I bade farewell to the May stars, and did one of the most adventurous things left to us — I went to bed. For no one can lay a hand on our dreams. All the authors of the world cannot spoil those.

The books that one reads in the impressionable years, and therefore absorbs and remembers, are always so much better and more exciting than life.

This is it: "There are two words for everything." Surely that is wisdom! The whole theory of party politics is in it, for one thing; and indeed all argument.

It is all to the good that insignificant-looking persons should do great things, but human nature will ever resent it. We are such determined idealists, we have such a passion for symmetry, that our first wish will always be that handsome …

"Lotus-eating would give you a terrible stomachache," I said, "wouldn't it?" And the plucky little creature had the hardihood to reply, "I hope so." What can you do with people like this? and England is full of them. Suspicion of happiness …

How can Nancy know her own mind when she has not got one? She is a dear, sweet girl, and I was devoted to her—am devoted to her—but she has no mind. It was I who was to give her that.

"What is it like in the air?" I once asked him. "Ripping," he said. "But the sensations?” I continued. “How do you feel?" "Ripping," he said. "And what does the world look like down below as you rush along?" "Ripping," he said.

What does matter is that in a French inn you may be as witty as you can, as intelligent as you can, but some one there will be more intelligent, more witty.

When it comes to analysing the pleasures of life, the privilege of approving and disapproving in conversation must be ranked very high, and reading aloud makes it so very harmless an amusement, since no talebearing is involved.

She doesn't love you because of anything — she loves. She doesn't care whether you are handsome or ugly, or old or young, or cruel or kind, or strong or weak, or conceited or humble, whether you drop your h's, or have nothing in the bank — …

The world is a great leveller, and every year brings with it certain modifying influences. I like a man to be his age. Twenty-one is not an age I am very partial to: it is omniscient and exorbitant and cruel; but I like a youth of …

I wonder that affectionate parents can ever give their consent to their children's marriage at all. I can understand a father having no particular objection to his son's wife, and a mother to her daughter's husband; but how a father can …

I could go on indefinitely thus, calling forth from their graves these hard-bitten sea dogs; but that is enough. It is literature in its way, is it not? Are there the same or kindred characters in the Navy to-day, one wonders. Let us hope …

I know nothing of grammar; At school they never could hammer Or beat it into my head. The bare word made me stammer, And turn pale as if I were dead. But here I may as well be telling, I'm often damned out in my spelling.

He was born in 1770, in what he thought the best of all lands— Ireland; and he came home from the sea in 1802, but he did not take his pen in hand until 1836, during which time his memory had purged itself of inessentials. He wrote them …