But now that was all gone by, and had left her neither happier nor wiser; and the best she could do with her mornings was to come up here into the cold church and juggle for a slice of heaven.

Robert Louis Stevenson

Robert Louis Stevenson

Profession: Author
Nationality: Scottish

Some suggestions for you :

We must lay to, if you please, and keep a bright lookout. It's trying on a man, I know. It would be pleasanter to come to blows. But there's no help for it till we know our men. Lay to, and whistle for a wind, that's my view.

To forget oneself is to be happy.

I know; I don't care to die either. But when whining mendeth nothing, wherefore whine?

As I looked there came, I thought a change - he seemed to swell - his face became suddenly black and the features seemed to melt and alter...

He was in that humour when a man will cut off his nose to spite his face.

With a little more patience and a little less temper, a gentler and wiser method might be found in almost every case; and the knot that we cut by some fine heady quarrel-scene in private life, or, in public affairs, by some denunciatory act against what we are pleased to call our neighbour's vices might yet have been unwoven by the hand of sympathy.

Talk is by far the most accessible of pleasures. It costs nothing in money, it is all profit, it completes our education, founds and fosters our friendships, and can be enjoyed at any age and in almost any state of health.

I began to perceive more deeply than it has ever yet been stated, the trembling immateriality, the mistlike transience, of this seemingly so solid body in which we walk attired.

Fifteen men on the dead man's chest— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

Come, come, Cap'n, be just, returned the other. There's no call to be angry with me in earnest. I'm on'y a chara'ter in a sea story. I don't really exist.

No, sir. I make it a rule of mine: The more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask.

Do you call that a head on your shoulders, or a blessed dead-eye?" cried Long John. "Don't rightly know, don't you! Perhaps you don't happen to rightly know who you was speaking to, perhaps? Come, now, what was he jawing—v'yages, cap'ns, ships? Pipe up! What was it?" "We.

It was one January morning, very early—a pinching, frosty morning—the cove all grey with hoar-frost, the ripple lapping softly on the stones, the sun still low and only touching the hilltops and shining far to seaward.

What is your reason for being tired of life? pursued the President.