Treasure Island

Christopher Morley

(5 May 1890 – 28 March 1957 / Haverford, Pennslyvania)

Quotations

  • ''Life is a foreign language: all men mispronounce it.''
    Christopher Morley (1890-1957), U.S. novelist, journalist, poet. Thunder on the Left, ch. 14 (1925).
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  • ''Heaven is not built of country seats
    But little queer suburban streets.''
    Christopher Morley (1890-1957), U.S. novelist, journalist, poet. "To the Little House ," st. 4.
  • ''God made man merely to hear some praise
    Of what he'd done on those Five Days.''
    Christopher Morley (1890-1957), U.S. novelist, journalist, poet. "Fons et Origo."
  • ''Dancing is a wonderful training for girls, it's the first way you learn to guess what a man is going to do before he does it.''
    Christopher Morley (1890-1957), U.S. novelist, journalist, poet. Kitty Foyle, ch. 11 (1939).
  • ''There is no mistaking a real book when one meets it. It is like falling in love, and like that colossal adventure it is an experience of great social import. Even as the tranced swain, the booklover yearns to tell others of his bliss. He writes letters about it, adds it to the postscript of all manner of communications, intrudes it into telephone messages, and insists on his friends writing down the title of the find. Like the simple-hearted betrothed, once certain of his conquest, "I want you to love her, too!" It is a jealous passion also. He feels a little indignant if he finds that any one else has discovered the book, too.''
    Christopher Morley (1890-1957), U.S. novelist, journalist, poet. "On Visiting Bookshops," Pipefuls, Doubleday (1920).
  • ''Sleep, dear Sleep, sweet harlot of the senses,
    Delilah of the spirit.''
    Christopher Morley (1890-1957), U.S. novelist, journalist, poet. Sleep.
  • ''Of old all invitations ended
    With the well-known R.S.V.P.,
    But now our laws have been amended
    The hostess writes B.Y.O.B.''
    Christopher Morley (1890-1957), U.S. novelist, journalist, poet. Thoughts on Being Invited to Dinner.

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Burning Leaves in Spring

WHEN withered leaves are lost in flame
Their eddying gosts, a thin blue haze,
Blow through the thickets whence they came
On amberlucent autumn days.

The cool green woodland heart receives
Their dim, dissolving, phantom breath;
In young hereditaty leaves
They see their happy life-in-death.

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