Fanny Burney
Fanny Burney
Frances Burney, also known as Fanny Burney and after her marriage as Madame d'Arblay, was an English novelist, diarist and playwright. She was born in Lynn Regis, now King's Lynn, England, on 13 June 1752, to musical historian Dr. Charles Burneyand Esther Sleepe Burney. The third of six children, she was self-educated and began writing what she called her "scribblings" at the age of ten. In 1793, aged 41, she married a French exile, General Alexandre D'Arblay. Their only son,...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth13 June 1752
No man is in love when he marries. He may have loved before; I have even heard he has sometimes loved after: but at the time never. There is something in the formalities of the matrimonial preparations that drive away all the little cupidons.
Misery is a guest that we are glad to part with, however certain of her speedy return.
The Spring is generally fertile in new acquaintances.
don't be angry with the gentleman for thinking, whatever be the cause, for I assure you he makes no common practice of offending in that way.
I'd rather be done any thing to than laughed at, for, to my mind, it's one or other the disagreeablest thing in the world.
the mind naturally accommodates itself, even to the most ridiculous improprieties, if they occur frequently.
I looked about for some of my acquaintance, but in vain, for I saw not one person that I knew, which is very odd, for all the world seemed there.
Childhood is never troubled with foresight.
Far from having taken any positive step, I have not yet even fommed any resolution.
How little has situation to do with happiness.
There's no nation under the sun can beat the English for ill-politeness: for my part, I hate the very sight of them; and so I shall only just visit a person of quality or two of my particular acquaintance, and then I shall go back again to France.
Well of all things in the world, I don't suppose anything can be so dreadful as a public wedding--my stars!--I should never be able to support it!
Imagination took the reins, and reason, slow-paced, though sure-footed, was unequal to a race with so eccentric and flighty a companion.
I never pretend to be so superior a being as to be above having and indulging a hobby horse [her journal writing], and while I keep mine within due bounds and limits, nobody, I flatter myself, would wish to deprive me of the poor animal: to be sure, he is not formed for labour, and is rather lame and weak, but then the dear creature is faithful, constant, and loving, and though he sometimes prances, would not kick anyone into the mire, or hurt a single soul for the world--and I would not part with him for one who could win the greatest prize that ever was won at any races.