Etext Editor’s Bookmarks
Absolute devotion to the day of her death,Absolutely, so positively, so almost aggressively truthfulAbstract, the air-drawn, afflicted me like physical discomfortsAct officiously, not officiallyAddressed to their tenderness out of his tendernessAlways sumptuously providing out of his destitutionAmiable perception, and yet with a sort of remote absenceAmuse him, even when they wronged himAmusingly realized the situation to their friendsAnglo-American genius for uglinessAppeal, which he had come to recognize as invasiveAppeared to have no grudge leftBacked their credulity with their creditBayard Taylor: incomparable translation of FaustBecame gratefully strangeBest talkers are willing that you should talk if you likeBut now I remember that he gets twenty dollars a month”Candle burning on the table for the cigarsCelia ThaxterCharles ReadeCharles F. BrowneChristianity had done nothing to improve morals and conditionsChurch: “Oh yes, I go It ‘most kills me, but I go,”Clemens was sole, incomparable, the Lincoln of our literatureCold-slawCollective opacityConfidence I have nearly always felt when wrongCould make us feel that our faults were other people’sCould easily believe now that it was some one else who saw itCould only by chance be caught in earnest about anythingCouldn’t fire your revolver without bringing down a two volumerDawn upon him through a cloud of other half remembered facesDeath of the joy that ought to come from workDeath’s vague conjectures to the broken expectations of lifeDespair broke in laughterDespised the avoidance of repetitions out of fear of tautologyDid not feel the effect I would so willingly have experiencedDinner was at the old-fashioned Boston hour of twoDiscomfort which mistaken or blundering praiseDollars were of so much farther flight than nowEdmund QuincyEdward Everett HaleEither to deny the substance of things unseen, or to affirm itEmersonEnjoying whatever was amusing in the disadvantage to himselfEspoused the theory of Bacon’s authorship of ShakespeareEthical sense, not the aesthetical senseEverlasting rock of human credulity and follyExpectation of those who will come no moreExpress the appreciation of another’s fit wordFeigned the gratitude which I could see that he expectedFell either below our pride or rose above our purseFelt that this was my misfortune more than my faultFew men last over from one reform to anotherFirst dinner served in courses that I had sat down toFlowers with which we garland our despair in that pitiless hourForbearance of a wise man content to bide his timeForebore to speak needlessly to him, or to shake his handFound life was not all poetryFrancis ParkmanGay laugh comes across the abysm of the yearsGenerous lover of all that was excellent in literatureGeorge William CurtisGiggle which Charles Lamb found the best thing in lifeGive him your best wineGot out of it all the fun there was in itGreeting of great impersonal cordialityGrieving that there could be such ire in heavenly mindsHard of hearing on one side. But it isn’t deafnessHarriet Beecher Stowe and the Autocrat clashed upon homeopathyHate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of loveHe was not bored because he would not beHe did not care much for fictionHe was not constructive; he was essentially observantHe had no time to make moneyHe was a youth to the end of his daysHe did not paw you with his hands to show his affectionHeineHeroic liesHis remembrance absolutely ceased with an eventHis readers trusted and loved himHis enemies suffered from it almost as much as his friendsHis coming almost killed her, but it was worth itHis plays were too bad for the stage, or else too good for itHollowness, the hopelessness, the unworthiness of lifeHonest men are few when it comes to themselvesI find this young man worthyI believe neither in heroes nor in saintsI did not know, and I hated to askIf he was half as bad, he would have been too bad to beIf he was not there to your touch, it was no fault of hisIn the South there was nothing but a mistaken social idealIncredible in their insipidityIndustrial slaveryInsatiable English fancy for the wild America no longer thereIntellectual poseursIt is well to hold one’s country to her promisesIt was mighty pretty, as Pepys would sayJane AustenJulia Ward HoweLeft him to do what the cat mightLie, of course, and did to save others from grief or harmLiked being with you, not for what he got, but for what he gaveLiked to find out good things and great things for himselfLincolnLiterary dislikes or contemptsLivy Clemens: nthe loveliest person I have ever seenLong breath was not his; he could not write a novelLongfellowLooked as if Destiny had sat upon itLove of freedom and the hope of justiceLove and gratitude are only semi-articulate at the bestLowellMade all men trust him when they doubted his opinionsMan who may any moment be out of work is industrially a slaveMan who had so much of the boy in himMarriages are what the parties to them alone really knowMellow cordial of a voice that was like no otherMemory will not be ruledMen who took themselves so seriously as that needMen’s lives ended where they began, in the keeping of womenMet with kindness, if not honorMight so far forget myself as to be a novelistMind and soul were with those who do the hard work of the worldMock modesty of print forbids my repeating hereMost desouthernized Southerner I ever knewMost serious, the most humane, the most conscientious of menMotleyNapoleonic height which spiritually overtops the AlpsNearly nothing as chaos could beNever saw a man more regardful of negroesNever saw a dead man whom he did not envyNever paid in anything but hopes of payingNo man ever yet told the truth about himselfNo time to make moneyNo man more perfectly sensed and more entirely abhorred slaveryNot quite himself till he had made you aware of his qualityNot a man who cared to transcend; he liked boundsNot much patience with the unmanly craving for sympathyNot much of a talker, and almost nothing of a story-tellerNot possible for Clemens to write like anybody elseNow death has come to join its vague conjecturesNYC, a city where money counts for more and goes for lessOdious hilarity, without meaning and without remissionOffers mortifyingly mean, and others insultingly vagueOld man’s tendency to revert to the pastOld man’s disposition to speak of his infirmitiesOne could be openly poor in Cambridge without open shameOnly one concerned who was quite unconcernedOught not to call coarse without calling one’s self prudishPathos of revolt from the colorless rigiditiesPerson who wished to talk when he could listenPlain-speaking or Rude SpeakingPointed the moral in all they didPolite learning hesitated his praisePraised it enough to satisfy the authorPraised extravagantly, and in the wrong placePut your finger on the present moment and enjoy itQuarrel was with error, and not with the persons who were in itQuebec was a bit of the seventeenth centuryReformers, who are so often tedious and ridiculousRemember the dinner-bellReparation due from every white to every black manSecret of the man who is universally interestingSeen through the wrong end of the telescopeShackles of belief worn so longShy of his fellow-men, as the scholar seems always to beSo refined, after the gigantic coarseness of CaliforniaSome superstition, usually of a hygienic sortSometimes they sacrificed the song to the sermonSought the things that he could agree with you uponSpare his years the fatigue of recalling your identityStandards were their own, and they were satisfied with themStoddardStudy in a corner by the porchStupidly truthfulThe world is well lost whenever the world is wrongThe ornament of a house is the friends who frequent itThings common to all, however peculiar in eachThoreauThose who have sorrowed deepest will understand this bestTimes when a man’s city was a man’s countryTired themselves out in trying to catch up with himTrue to an ideal of life rather than to life itselfTruthfulTurn of the talk toward the mysticalUsed to ingratitude from those he helpedVacuous vulgarity of its textsVisited one of the great millsWalter-Scotticized, pseudo-chivalry of the Southern idealWasted face, and his gay eyes had the death-lookWe have never ended before, and we do not see how we can endWelcome me, and make the least of my shyness and strangenessWell, if you are to be lost, I want to be lost with youWhat he had done he owned to, good, bad, or indifferentWhen to be an agnostic was to be almost an outcastWhether every human motive was not selfishWhitman’s public use of his privately written praiseWit that tries its teeth upon everythingWomen’s rightsWonder why we hate the past so—“It’s so damned humiliating!”Wonderful to me how it should remain so unintelligibleWork gives the impression of an uncommon continuityWrote them first and last in the spirit of Dickens