Charles Dickens Quotes

In durance vile 1here must I wake and weep, And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep.

We have real cliched ideas of what prison life is like. It is not a happy place. It's a desperate, sad situation.

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U- Niversity of Gottingen.

Please don't set me free Death means a lot me

You have left me so long to struggle against death, alone, that I feel and see only death! I feel like death!

I finally broke into the prison I found my place in the chain Even damnation is poisoned with rainbows

I'm all out o faith, this is how I feel. I'm cold and I am shamed lying naked on the floor. Illusions never change into something real. I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn. You're a little late, I'm already torn.

Life is like a concentration camp... you can't leave without dying.

Hopeless and helpless doth Egeon wend, But to procrastinate his liveless end.

For Beatrice, I cherished, you perished, The world's been nightmarished.

The light has gone out of my life.

Life is a long drawn out lie, with a sniffling sigh at the end of it.

You are all in jail. Each alone, solitary, with a heap of what he owns. You live in prison, die in prison. It is all I can see in your eyes - the wall, the wall!

My heart is broken... I'm lying here My thoughts are choking On you my dear.

We each die countless little deaths on our way to the last. We die out of shame as humiliation. We perish from despair. And, of course, we die for love.

She could not mourn. She could no longer weep grasping the essence of annihilation, she wished only to cease, to be no more, as if sunk in some profound sleep devoid of wakening.

Quand notre coeur a fait une fois sa vendange, Vivre est un mal. Once our heart has been harvested once, Life becomes miserable.

One bitter time of mourning, I remember, When day, and night, my sad heart did complain, My life, I said, was one cold, bleak December, And all its pleasures, were but whited pain.

She was a ghost in a strange house that overnight had become immense and solitary and through which she wandered without purpose, asking herself in anguish which one of them was deader: the man who had died or the woman he had left behind.

My heart bleeds buttermilk. -Daine

Stuart must have sensed my despair from the way I began lightly banging my forehead on the table.

Nature always wears the colors of the spirit. To a man laboring under calamity the heat of his own fire hath sadness in it. Then there is a kind of contempt of the landscape felt by him who has just lost by death a dear friend. The sky is less grand as it shuts down over less worth in the population.

Sorrow was all my soul; I scarce believed, Till grief did tell me roundly, that I lived.

Just think how many thoughts a blanket smothers while one lies alone in bed, and how many unhappy dreams it keeps warm.