The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like death; not death as it shews in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven: and the gross air of the world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.
Interpretation
This quote reflects on the profound impact of anxiety and sadness on a young boy, portraying his state as close to death without being dead.
In this quote from Charles Dickens, the author evokes a powerful image of a boy exhausted by anxiety and sadness, lying in a simple bed on the floor. The description of the boy's pale visage associates his emotional state with death, not in a literal sense but in the way it robs the spirit of life and vitality. Dickens draws a stark contrast between the physical state of being alive and the emotional burden that can render a person nearly lifeless, suggesting that the weight of despair can diminish one's essence just as profoundly as death itself.
In practice
This quote could be used in a discussion about mental health in youth.
I recollected one story there was in the village, how that on a certain night in the year (it might be that very night for anything I knew), all the dead people came out of the ground and sat at the heads of their own graves till morning.
A silent look of affection and regard when all other eyes are turned coldly away-the consciousness that we possess the sympathy and affection of one being when all others have deserted us-is a hold, a stay, a comfort, in the deepest affliction, which no wealth could purchase, or power bestow.
Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before--more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.
There are not a few among the disciples of charity who require, in their vocation, scarcely less excitement than the votaries of pleasure in theirs.
You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,” said Miss Pross, in her breathing. “Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of me. I am an Englishwoman.
Christmas is a poor excuse every 25th of December to pick a man's pockets.
God is an ever-present spirit guiding all that happens to a wise and holy end.
War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, the lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade.
The furies are at home in the mirror; it is their address. Even the clearest water, if deep enough can drown. Never think to surprise them. Your face approaching ever so friendly is the white flag they ignore. There is no truce with the furies. A mirror's temperature is always zero. It is ice in the veins. It's camera is an x-ray. It is a chalice held out to you in silent communion, where gaspingly you partake of a shifting identity never your own.
We must kill the false woman who is preventing the live one from breathing.
The toddler must say no in order to find out who she is. The adolescent says no to assert who she is not.
Whenever our interior life becomes caught up in its own interests and concerns, there is no longer room for _x000D_ others, no place for the poor.
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