Book: Hard times

- I beg your pardon, but I don’t want to be too dear to you. This comes first. when I become important to someone, it usually means that they are going to cheat me.

Such a passionate reproach sounded in her voice that he felt a prick in the place where the heart should have been, and there was only a nest of scrambled eggs, while the birds of the air could have lived there if he had not dispersed them with his whistle.

People who undertake to rob banks must bear responsibility for the consequences. If there were no consequences, we'd all be doing it.

When the devil walks among us like a roaring lion, he walks in a form that, except for savages and hunters, can tempt only a few. But when he is dressed up, ironed, polished in the latest fashion; when he is satiated with vice, sated with virtue and worn out to such an extent that he is not fit for either hell or heaven; then - whether he is engaged in red tape or red tape - then he is a real devil.

Old age, especially when it tries not to be a burden and not to cause melancholy, is highly respected among the poor.

A party that can prove anything by drawing units, tens, hundreds and thousands side by side, is more likely than others to promise its members both entertainment and benefit.

Any set of ideas does just as much good as any other, and exactly as much harm.

Any rich man who started with sixpence and subsequently made sixty thousand pounds constantly asked a perplexed question - why did not all sixty thousand surrounding workers earn sixty thousand pounds each, starting with six pence, and even seemed to reproach them for not accomplished this simple feat. What I did, you can do too. Why don't you do this?

Over the years, Bitzer turned into an unusually sober, prudent, prudent young man who could not help but succeed in life. His spiritual mechanism worked so regularly and accurately that he knew neither feelings nor passions. All his actions were the result of the most subtle and cold-blooded calculations.

She tried to discern what kind of weaving the greatest and most ancient master - gray Time - would make from the tow he had already spun into a woman. But his weaving is a hidden place, its work is not heard, and its working hands are silent.

Both the great and the small of this world know grief.

Place side by side, anywhere, and compare what was created by God and what was created by man, and the first, even if it were just a bunch of very modest working hands, will immeasurably surpass the second in dignity.

They say that every person on earth is destined for both roses and thorns.

I am obsessed with the absurd idea that the English people are forced to work as hard as any other people living under the sun.