Quotes from Judith Flanders

The last refuge of the intelligentsia: when life gets too difficult, go find something to read.

There are supposed to be endorphins or whatever that make you feel great when you exercise. I don't think I have any, because I only feel great when I'm lying on the sofa reading a book, possibly while simultaneously eating biscuits.

Dickens' London was a place of the mind, but it was also a real place. Much of what we take today to be the marvellous imaginings of a visionary novelist turn out on inspection to be the reportage of a great observer.

Vain people can't bear to be crossed. They are the center of their world, and if circumstances don't allow the world to meet their needs, then the circumstances need to be changed. Their actions appear proportionate to them because any situation where their needs aren't being met is an affront.

Well some are born to be hanged, and some are not; and many of those who are not hanged are much worse than those who are.

the tree was a Weihnachtsbaum, or Tannenbaum, a Christmas or fir tree; Protestantism became 'the Tannenbaum religion', and the trees were sometimes Lutherbäume, [Martin] Luther trees. Where Catholic regions adopted the tree, it became a Christbaum, a Lichterbaum, or Lebensbaum, a tree of Christ, light, or life; Württemberg had Christkindleinsbäume, Christ child trees.

Trees were erected by German immigrants in Texas in the 1840s, and by the 1850s they had become naturalized and were decorated with local produce: moss, cotton, pecans, red pepper swags and, an American innovation, the popcorn string, as well as Old World red berries, biscuits and sweets.

but it was almost repellent to distrust this courtly old man. Like kicking one of those white-whiskered, stately dogs that spend their days sunning themselves, but still feel obliged to creak to their feet to greet a newcomer.

Fairs to raise funds for the abolitionist movement also advertised trees.

Ben is twenty-six, and this is his first job. He is small, weedy, and terribly, terribly serious about his work. His. Not anyone else's. He despises everyone else's. He has, however, produced our only literary fiction in the last two years that has sold over five thousand copies, so people listen to him. Which is a pity, since he doesn't really have anything to say.

It reinforces a sense of safety, even of pleasure, to know that murder is possible, just not here. At the start of the nineteenth century, it was easy to think of murder that way.