Frances Hodgson Burnett, fully Frances Eliza Hodgson Burnett

Frances Hodgson
Burnett, fully Frances Eliza Hodgson Burnett
1849
1924

English Playwright and Author known for her children's stories, in particular The Secret Garden, A Little Princess, and Little Lord Fauntleroy

Author Quotes

Lottie was so delighted that she quite forgot her first shocked impression of the attic. In fact, when she was lifted down from the table and returned to earthly things, as it were, Sara was able to point out to her many beauties in the room which she herself would not have suspected the existence of.

Oh,Sara. It is like a story. It is a story...everything is a story. You are a story-I am a story. Miss Minchin is a story.

She IS too fat, said Lavinia. And Sara is too thin.

The mere seeing of Miss Sara would have been enough without meat pies. If there was time only for a few words, they were always friendly, merry words that put heart into one...Sara--who was only doing what she unconsciously liked better than anything else, Nature having made her for a giver--had not the least idea what she meant to poor Becky, and how wonderful a benefactor she seemed.

Whatever comes, she said, cannot alter one thing. If I am a princess in rags and tatters, I can be a princess inside. It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed in cloth of gold, but it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows it.

Mary did not know what wutherin' meant until she listened, and then she understood. It must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which rushed round and round the house, as if the giant no one could see were buffeting it and beating at the walls and windows to try to break in. But one knew he could not get in, and somehow it made one feel very safe and warm inside a room with a red coal fire.

One of the most extraordinary discoveries of this century has been the thoughts are as powerful as electric batteries, as good as light and as dangerous as poison. if we let a sad thought or evil is introduced into our minds is as dangerous as letting a virus from taking over our body. If allowed to remain, it is possible that we cannot let go of him anymore.

She liked books more than anything else, and was, in fact, always inventing stories of beautiful things and telling them to herself.

The robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to the top of the wall and he opened his beak and sang a loud, lovely trill, merely to show off. Nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off - and they are nearly always doing it.

When a man is overcome by anger, he has a poisoned fever. He loses his strength, he loses his power over himself and over others. He throws away time in which he might have gained the end he desires. The is no time for anger in the world.

Might I, quavered Mary, might I have a bit of earth?

One of the new things people began to find out in the last century was that thoughts—just mere thoughts—are as powerful as electric batteries—as good for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison. To let a sad thought or a bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ get into your body. If you let it stay there after it has got in you may never get over it as long as you live... surprising things can happen to anyone who, when a disagreeable or discouraged thought comes into his mind, just has the sense to remember in time and push it out by putting in an agreeable determinedly courageous one. Two things cannot be in one place.

She looked into the staring glass eyes and complacent face, and suddenly a sort of heartbroken rage seized her. She lifted her little savage hand and knocked Emily off the chair, bursting into a passion of sobbing- Sara who never cried.

The Secret Garden was what Mary called it when she was thinking of it. She liked the name, and she liked still more the feeling that when itÂ’s beautiful old walls shut her in no one knew where she was. It seemed almost like being shut out of the world in some fairy place. The few books she had read and liked had been fairy-story books, and she had read of secret gardens in some of the stories. Sometimes people went to sleep in them for a hundred years, which she had thought must be rather stupid. She had no intention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becoming wider awake every day which passed at Misselthwaite.

When a man looks at the stars, he grows calm and forgets small things. They answer his questions and show him that his earth is only one of the million worlds. Hold your soul still and look upward often, and you will understand their speech. Never forget the stars.

I'll try to find out what magic means to me because I believe that there is magic all around us.

Mistress Mary Quite Contrary.

One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever. One knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands out and throws one's head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the East almost makes one cry out and one's heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun--which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. One knows it then for a moment or so. And one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries. Then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with the millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure; and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look in someone's eyes.

She made herself stronger by fighting with the wind.

The strong and strange thing—that which moves on its way as do birth and death, and the rising and setting of the sun—had begun to move in them. It was no new and rare thing, but an ancient and common one—as common and ancient as death and birth themselves; and part of the law as they are. As it comes to royal persons to whom one makes obeisance at their mere passing by, as it comes to scullery maids in royal kitchens, and grooms in royal stables, as it comes to ladies-in-waiting and the women who serve them, so it had come to these two who had been drawn near to each other from the opposite sides of the earth, and each started at the touch of it, and withdrew a pace in bewilderment, and some fear.

When i am telling it, it doesn't seem as if it was only made up. it seems more real than you are-more real than the school room. i feel as if i were all the people in the story-one after the other. it's queer. -sara

In the garden there was nothing which was not quite like themselves - nothing which did not understand the wonderfulness of what was happening to them - the immense, tender, terrible, heart-breaking beauty and solemnity of Eggs. If there had been one person in that garden who had not known through all his or her innermost being that if an Egg were taken away or hurt the whole world would whirl round and crash through space and come to an end... there could have been no happiness even in that golden springtime air.

Mother says as th' two worst things as can happen to a child is never have his own way-- or always to have it. She doesn't know which is th' worst.

Only once in a while you can be sure that you will live forever, and that is one of the curiosities of life. Sometimes it happens when you get up at dawn, the time of mellifluous solemnity, and exit to the garden and stays still and only one there, and gets far away, higher and higher, and observed how the changes color pale blue sky, blushing, how will the unusual and wonderful happening until the East almost makes one cry out, and the heart ceased beating appears before the inexplicable, imperturbable majesty of the rising sun. For thousands of years, this is what happens every morning, and that's when you know for a moment that you will live forever. And you know sometimes when you're alone in a forest, in the twilight, and the mysterious deep gold stillness that descends bending the branches, and under them, seem to tell us very slowly, again and again, something not fully understood, though heard. And then sometimes we confirmed the immense quiet of the dark blue of the night, in which we wait and watch millions of stars, and sometimes tells us distant music, and others, is written in eyes watching us.

She stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling--even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely, and the big closed house and big bare moor and big bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself. If she had been an affectionate child, who had been used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though she was Mistress Mary Quite Contrary she was desolate, and the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face which was almost a smile. She listened to him until he flew away. He was not like an Indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she should ever see him again. Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it.

Author Picture
First Name
Frances Hodgson
Last Name
Burnett, fully Frances Eliza Hodgson Burnett
Birth Date
1849
Death Date
1924
Bio

English Playwright and Author known for her children's stories, in particular The Secret Garden, A Little Princess, and Little Lord Fauntleroy