Quote
"One writer, for instance, excels at a plan or a title page, another works away at the body of the book, and a third is a dab at an index."
O
Oliver Goldsmith"The better sort here pretend to the utmost compassion for animals of every kind. To hear them speak, a stranger would be apt to imagine they could hardly hurt the gnat that stung them: they seem so tender and so full of pity, that one would take them for the harmless friends of the whole creation; the protectors of the meanest insect or reptile that was privileged with existence. And yet, would you believe it? I have seen the very men who have thus boasted of their tenderness, at the same time devouring the flesh of six different animals toasted up in a fricassee. Strange contrariety of conduct! they pity and they eat the objects of their compassion."
Oliver Goldsmith was an Anglo-Irish poet, novelist, playwright, and hack writer. He produced literary works in a variety of genres and is regarded as one of the most versatile writers of the Georgian era. His works are known for their realistic depictions of British society, and his comedy plays for the English stage are considered second in importance only to those of playwright William Shakespea
"One writer, for instance, excels at a plan or a title page, another works away at the body of the book, and a third is a dab at an index."
"Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall."
"Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt; Its like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt."
"Man seems the only growth that dwindles here."
"Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po."
"A nightcap decked his brows instead of bay, A cap by night — a stocking all the day!"
"The wound is the place where the Light enters you."
"yes is a pleasant country... love is a deeper season than reason"
"true lovers in each happening of their hearts live longer than all which and every who"
"What concerns me fundamentaly is a meteoric burlesk melodrama, born of the immemorial adage love will find a way."
"Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flower Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!"
"Unchanged within, to see all changed without, Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. Yet why at others Wanings shouldst thou fret? Then only mightst thou feel a just regret, Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light In selfish forethought of neglect and slight."