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?"

My theory is to enjoy life, but my practice is against it.

To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.

The red-letter days, now become, to all intents and purposes, dead-letter days.

Books which are no books.

Nothing puzzles me more than time and space; and yet nothing troubles me less, as I never think about them.

So near are the boundaries of panegyric and invective, that a worn-out sinner is sometimes found to make the best declaimer against sin. The same high-seasoned descriptions which in his unregenerate state served to inflame his appetites, in his new province of a moralist will serve him (a little turned) to expose the enormity of those appetites in other men.