Books think for me. I can read anything which I call a book.

No work is worse than overwork; the mind preys on itself,--the most unwholesome of food.

The only true time which a man can properly call his own, is that which he has all to himself; the rest, though in some sense he may be said to live it, is other people's time, not his.

I like you and your book, ingenious Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition 's shown; And all that history, much that fiction weaves.

And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

I mean your borrowers of books - those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes.

What have I gained by health? Intolerable dullness. What by mode meals? A total blank.