Pride

‘He calls the knaves, Jacks, this boy,’ said Estella with disdain, before our first game was out.

I am monarch of all I survey,

And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin

Victor Hugo was a madman who thought he was Victor Hugo.

He that is down needs fear no fall,

‘You’re wounded!’ ‘Nay,’ the soldier’s pride

Because you are a great lord, you believe yourself to be a great genius! … You took the trouble to be born, but no more.

It was prettily devised of Aesop, ‘The fly sat upon the axle-tree of the chariot-wheel and said, what a dust do I raise.’

I’m the greatest.

Compare yourself to those who are superior to you, and you’ll find yourself lacking; compare yourself to those who are inferior to you, and you’ll find yourself more than good enough.

But I believe that since my life began The most I’ve had is just A talent to amuse.

The ant’s a centaur in his dragon world. Pull down thy vanity, it is not man Made courage, or made order, or made grace, Learn of the green world what can be thy place In scaled invention or true artistry, Pull down thy vanity, The green casque has outdone your elegance.

A great nose indicates a great man— Genial, courteous, intellectual, Virile, courageous.

An intellectual hatred is the worst, So let her think opinions are accursed. Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty’s horn, Because of her opinionated mind Barter that horn and every good By quiet natures understood For an old bellows full of angry wind?

Brute beauty and valor and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle!

I asked no other thing— No other—was denied— I offered Being—for it— The Mighty Merchant sneered— Brazil? He twirled a Button— Without a glance my way— “But—Madam—is there nothing else— That We can show—Today?”

I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious.

If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning.

Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.

What is the end of fame? ’tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapor.

The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeathed the name of Washington To make man blush there was but one!

He who ascends to mountaintops, shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those below.

The pride of the peacock is the glory of God. The lust of the goat is the bounty of God. The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God. The nakedness of woman is the work of God.

The deed is everything, the glory nothing.