369 ordspråk av Samuel Butler

Samuel Butler

Samuel Butler

Samuel Butler föddes den 8 december 1835 och dog den 18 juni 1902 - engelsk poet och satiriker.
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There's many a good tune played on an old fiddle.

To do great work a man must be very idle as well as very industrious.

There are two great rules in life, the one general and the other particular. The first is that every one can in the end get what he wants if he only tries. This is the general rule. The particular rule is that every individual is more or less of an exception to the rule.

Then spare the rod and spoil the child.

People are lucky and unlucky...according to the ratio between what they get and what they have been led to expect.

The public buys its opinions as it buys its meat, or takes in its milk, on the principle that it is cheaper to do this than to keep a cow. So it is, but the milk is more likely to be watered.

The thief. Once committed beyond a certain point he should not worry himself too much about not being a thief any more. Thieving is God's message to him. Let him try and be a good thief.

Man is God's highest present development. He is the latest thing in God.

For most men, and most circumstances, pleasure /tangible material prosperity in this world /is the safest test of virtue. Progress has ever been through the pleasures rather than through the extreme sharp virtues, and the most virtuous have leaned to excess rather than to asceticism.

A man's friendships are, like his will, invalidated by marriage - but they are also no less invalidated by the marriage of his friends.

There is nothing so unthinkable as thought, unless it be the entire absence of thought.

Rare virtues are like rare plants or animals, things that have not been able to hold their own in the world. A virtue to be serviceable must, like gold, be alloyed with some commoner but more durable metal.

For Wealth are all things that conduce, to one's destruction or their use. A standard both to buy and sell, all things from heaven down to hell.

Stowed away in a Montreal lumber room / The Discobolus standeth and turneth his face to the wall; / Dusty, cobweb-covered, maimed and set at naught, / Beauty crieth in an attic and no man regardeth: / O God! O Montreal!

I'll make the fur / Fly round the ears of the old cur.

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