Arnold Bennett, fully Enoch Thomas Arnold Bennett

Arnold
Bennett, fully Enoch Thomas Arnold Bennett
1867
1931

English Novelist, Playwright, Critic and Essayist

Author Quotes

It is a fine thing to be a walking encyclopaedia of philosophy, but if you happen to have no liking for philosophy, and to have a like for the natural history of street-cries, much better leave philosophy alone, and take to street-cries.

Most people sleep themselves stupid.

Only people, especially Anglo-Saxons, are so afraid lest joyfulness may somehow be reprehensible that they will never admit it as a lawful and laudable end in itself.

The foundation of England's greatness is that Englishmen hate to look fools.

The real Tragedy is the tragedy of the man who never in his life braces himself for his one supreme effort-he never stretches to his full capacity, never stands up to his full stature.

We shall never have more time. We have, and always had, all the time there is. No object is served in waiting until next week or even until tomorrow. Keep going... Concentrate on something useful.

It is difficult to make a reputation, but is even more difficult seriously to mar a reputation once properly made --- so faithful is the public.

Most people who are ruined are ruined by attempting too much.

Out of it you have to spin health, pleasure, money, content, respect, and the evolution of your immortal soul.

The gain in self-confidence of having accomplished a tiresome labour is immense.

The saxophone is the embodied spirit of beer.

Well, my deliberate opinion is - it's a jolly strange world.

It is easier to go down a hill than up, but the view is from the top.

Mother is far too clever to understand anything she does not like.

Pessimism, when you get used to it, is just as agreeable as optimism.

The makers of literature are those who have seen and felt the miraculous interestingness of the universe. If you have formed...literary taste...your life will be one long ecstasy of denying that the world is a dull place.

The second suggestion is to think as well as to read. I know people who read and read, and for all the good it does them they might just as well cut bread-and-butter. They take to reading as better men take to drink. They fly through the shires of literature on a motor-car, their sole object being motion. They will tell you how many books they have read in a year. Unless you give at least 45 minutes to careful, fatiguing reflection (it is an awful bore at first) upon what you are reading, your 90 minutes of a night are chiefly wasted.

What then? Are we only to buy the books that we read? The question has merely to be thus bluntly put, and it answers itself. All impassioned bookmen, except a few who devote their whole lives to reading, have rows of books on their shelves which they have never read, and which they never will read. I know that I have hundreds such. My eye rests on the works of Berkeley in three volumes, with a preface by the Right Honourable Arthur James Balfour. I cannot conceive the circumstances under which I shall ever read Berkeley; but I do not regret having bought him in a good edition, and I would buy him again if I had him not; for when I look at him some of his virtue passes into me; I am the better for him. A certain aroma of philosophy informs my soul, and I am less crude than I should otherwise be. This is not fancy, but fact.

It is well, when judging a friend, to remember that he is judging you with the same godlike and superior impartiality.

Much ingenuity with a little money is vastly more profitable and amusing than much money without ingenuity.

Philosophers have explained space. They have not explained time.

The man who begins to go to bed forty minutes before he opens his bedroom door is bored; that is to say, he is not living.

The supply of time is truly a daily miracle, an affair genuinely astonishing when one examines it. You wake up in the morning, and lo! your purse is magically filled with twenty-four hours of the unmanufactured tissue of the universe of your life! It is yours. It is the most precious of possessions. A highly singular commodity, showered upon you in a manner as singular as the commodity itself!

When one has thoroughly got imbued into one's head the leading truth that nothing happens without a cause, one grows not only large-minded, but large-hearted.

It is within the experience of everyone that when pleasure and pain reach a certain intensity they are indistinguishable.

Author Picture
First Name
Arnold
Last Name
Bennett, fully Enoch Thomas Arnold Bennett
Birth Date
1867
Death Date
1931
Bio

English Novelist, Playwright, Critic and Essayist