Samuel Johnson
Samuel Johnson
Samuel Johnson, often referred to as Dr Johnson, was an English writer who made lasting contributions to English literature as a poet, essayist, moralist, literary critic, biographer, editor and lexicographer. Johnson was a devout Anglican and committed Tory, and has been described as "arguably the most distinguished man of letters in English history". He is also the subject of "the most famous single biographical work in the whole of literature," James Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionNon-Fiction Author
Date of Birth18 September 1709
His death eclipsed the gayety of nations, and impoverished the public stock of harmless pleasure.
If one was to think constantly of death, the business of life would stand still
It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives. The act of dying is not of importance, it lasts so short a time.
The uncertainty of death is, in effect, the great support of the whole system of life.
The time will come to every human being when it must be known how well he can bear to die.
Philosophy has often attempted to repress insolence by asserting that all conditions are leveled by death; a position which, however it may defect the happy, will seldom afford much comfort to the wretched.
It seems to be remarkable that death increases our veneration for the good, and extenuates our hatred for the bad.
Prepare for death, if here at night you roam, and sign your will before you sup from home.
I will be conquered; I will not capitulate.
Disease generally begins that equality which death completes.
The whole of life is but keeping away the thoughts of death.
Do not ... hope wholly to reason away your troubles; do not feed them with attention, and they will die imperceptibly away. Fix your thoughts upon your business, fill your intervals with company, and sunshine will again break in upon your mind.
When we see our enemies and friends gliding away before us, let us not forget that we are subject to the general law of mortality, and shall soon be where our doom will be fixed forever.
When a friend is carried to his grave, we at once find excuses for every weakness, and palliation of every fault. We recollect a thousand endearments, which before glided off our minds without impression, a thousand favors unrepaid, a thousand duties unperformed; and wish, vainly wish, for his return, not so much that we may receive as that we may bestow happiness, and recompense that kindness which before we never understood.