We have heard of the fall of Lucifer, and the fall of Cromwell, and the fall of Wolsey, but one of the pleasantest tumbles upon record was that of a Mr. John Fell, who, when he removed from one part of the metropolis to another, wrote over his door — I Fell from Holborn Hill.
— The Manchester Iris, Vol. 2, November 15, 1823
I often think how much easier life would have been for me and how much time I should have saved if I had known the alphabet. I can never tell where I and J stand without saying G, H to myself first. I don’t know whether P comes before R or after, and where T comes in has to this day remained something that I have never been able to get into my head
— William Somerset Maugham, A Writer’s Notebook, 1949
Who’s the Real Lunatic?
I must write something of myself today. I can look back and see plainly all my journey here. The day may come when I shall be laid away in the grave, and my boys — the dear boys I have loved so well — will look over my trunk and find this manuscript; they will then perhaps believe I am not crazy. I know Dr. Steeves tells them I am a lunatic yet. They will weep over this, as they think of the mother they have left here to die among strangers.
— Mary Huestis Pengilly, Diary Written in the Provincial Lunatic Asylum, 1885