Quotes from Charles Brockden Brown

How slender is the accommodation which nature has provided for man.

Of all the forms of injustice, that is the most egregious which makes the circumstances of sex a reason for excluding one half of mankind from all those paths which lead to usefulness and honor

Grief carries its own antidote along with it.

But now, severed from the companion of my infancy, the partaker of all my thoughts, my cares, and my wishes, I was like one set afloat upon a stormy sea, hanging his safety upon a plank; night was closing upon him, and an unexpected surge had torn him from his hold and overwhelmed him forever.

My narrative may be invaded by inaccuracy and confusion; but if I live no longer, I will, at least, live to complete it. What but ambiguities, abruptnesses, and dark transitions, can be expected from the historian who is, at the same time, the sufferer of these disasters?

I used to suppose that certain evils could never befall a being in possession of a sound mind; that true virtue supplies us with energy which vice can never resist; that it was always in our power to obstruct, by his own death, the designs of an enemy who aimed at less than our lives.

Ruffian or devil, black as hell or bright as angels, thenceforth he was nothing to me.

Fallen from his lofty and heroic station; now finally restored to the perception of truth; weighed to earth by the recollection of his own deeds; consoled no longer by a consciousness of rectitude, for the loss of offspring and wife a loss for which he was indebted to his own misguided hand; Wieland was transformed at once into the man of sorrow?

Dost thou wish me to complete the catalogue by thy death? Thy life is a worthless thing. Tempt me no more. I am but a man, and thy presence may awaken a fury which may spurn my control. Begone!

Where was her bloom! These deadly and blood-suffused orbs but ill resemble the azure and ecstatic tenderness of her eyes. The lucid stream that meandered over that bosom, the glow of love that was wont to sit upon that cheek, are much unlike these livid stains and this hideous deformity. Alas! These were the traces of agony; the grip of the assassin had been here!

I have lost all faith in the steadfastness of human resolves.

Where is the proof, said I, that daemons may not be subjected to the control of men? This truth may be distorted and debased in the minds of the ignorant. The dogmas of the vulgar, with regard to this subject, are glaringly absurd; but though these may justly be neglected by the wise, we are scarcely justified in totally rejecting the possibility that man may obtain supernatural aid.

I sought not in her visage, for the tinge of the morning, and the lustre of heaven. These had vanished with life; but I hoped for liberty to print a last kiss upon her lips. This was denied me; for such had been the merciless blow that destroyed her, that not a lineament remained!

Scanned by the eyes of this intelligence, your path will be without pits to swallow, or snares to entangle you. Environed by the arms of this protection, all artifices will be frustration, and all malice repelled.

We become fondly attached to objects and pursuits, frequently for no conceivable reason but the pain and trouble they cost us. In proportion to the danger in which they involve us do we cherish them. Our darling potion is the poison that scorches our vitals.

The incapacity of sound sleep denotes a mind sorely wounded.

No one knows the powers that are latent in his constitution. Called forth by imminent dangers, our efforts frequently exceed our most sanguine belief.

There is no standard by which time can be measured, but the succession of our thoughts, and the changes that take place in the external world.

Death was a sweet relief for my present miseries, and I vehemently longed for its arrival.

How slender is the accommodation which nature has provided for man.

Why should you waste your time in idleness, and torment yourself with unprofitable wishes? Books are at hand; books from which most sciences and languages can be learned. Read, analyse, digest; collect facts, and investigate theories: ascertain the dictates of reason, and supply yourself with the inclination and the power to adhere to them.

In his first published work, the magazine essay series, The Rhapsodist, Brown suggests that the role of the writer is "to enchain the attention and ravish the souls of those who study and reflect.

Endless improvements turn out to be merely endless transformations, thus announcing the uncomfortable truth that identity is permanently insubstantial and mutable.

Books are cold," declared Arthur Merwyn. They "allow no questions, offer no explanations... They talk to us behind a screen. Their tone is lifeless and monotonous. They charm not our attention by mute significances of gesture and look.