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Quote by John Frederick Boyes

Work

Life and Books: Or, Records of Thought and Reading

This work is a compilation of essays and musings that explore the profound influence of reading on an individual's thoughts and experiences. The author delves into the significance of literature, the process of comprehension, and the transformational power of books in shaping one's worldview. more

Author

John Frederick Boyes

John Frederick Boyes (February 10, 1811 – 1879) was a 19th-century British figure whose specific occupation and life details remain largely unknown due to limited historical records. He may have been active in British society or colonial spheres, but lacks extensive documentation. Born in 1811 and died in 1879 at age 68, his life possibly involved commerce, administration, or academia, though specific contributions are unclear. This biography provides basic information based on available sources, avoiding fabrication. more

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“Indeed, happiness is nothing other than being encompassed, an after-image of the original shelter within the mother. But for this reason no one who is happy can know that he is so. To see happiness, he would have to pass out of it: to be as if already born. He who says he is happy lies, and in invoking happiness, sins against it. He alone keeps faith who says: I was happy.”

“We are often like rivers: careless and forceful, timid and dangerous, lucid and muddied, eddying, gleaming, still. Lovers, farmers, and artists have one thing in common, at least - a fear of 'dry spells,' dormant periods in which we do no blooming, internal droughts only the waters of imagination and psychic release can civilize.”

“A black-crowned night heron stood on an apron of wet sand, looking across the channel. The feather plume at the back of his head lifted in a faint breeze. Out there the channel churned its cyclonic eddies counterclockwise. Schools of anchovies, halibut, and sea bass came and went: silver flashes, small storms that well up from the inside of the sea but are short-lived, like lightning.”

“As fog moved to the mainland I heard a flock of birds fly over. They sounded like a dress rustling, a dress being unfastened and dropping to the floor. Fog came unpinned like hair. On the beach cliffs, great colonies of datura - jimson weed - with their white trumpet flowers, looked like brass bands.”