George Eliot, pen name of Mary Ann or Marian Evans
Eliot, pen name of Mary Ann or Marian Evans
Will was not without his intentions to be always generous, but our tongues are little triggers which have usually been pulled before general intentions can be brought to bear.
You approve of my going away for years, then, and never coming here again till I have made myself of some mark in the world? said Will, trying hard to reconcile the utmost pride with the utmost effort to get an expression of strong feeling from Dorothea. She was not aware how long it was before she answered. She had turned her head and was looking out of the window on the rose-bushes, which seemed to have in them the summers of all the years when Will would be away.
Your trouble's easy borne when everybody gives it a lift for you.
When you see fair hair be pitiful.
Wine and the sun will make vinegar without any shouting to help them.
You are a good young man, she said. But I do not like husbands. I will never have another.
Your words bring daylight with them when you speak.
When you've been used to doing things, and they've been taken away from you, it's as if your hands had been cut off, and you felt the fingers as are of no use to you.
Wise books for half the truths they hold are honored tombs.
You can't conceive what a great fellow I'm going to be. The seed of immortality has sprouted within me.
You're never too old to be what you might have been.
Where lies the power, there let the blame lie too. Nay, power is relative; you cannot fright the coming pest with border fortresses, Or catch your carp with subtle argument. All force is twain in one: cause is not cause unless effect be there; and action's self Must needs contain a passive. So command Exists but with obedience.
Wit is a form of force that leaves the limbs at rest.
You have such strong words at command, that they make the smallest argument seem formidable.
Where women love each other, men learn to smother their mutual dislike.
With a single drop of ink for a mirror, the Egyptian sorcerer undertakes to reveal to any chance comer far-reaching visions of the past. This is what I undertake to do for you, reader.
You know I have duties??we both have duties??before which feeling must be sacrificed.
Where you have friends you should not go to inns.
With memory set smarting like a reopened wound, a man's past is not simply a dead history, an outworn preparation of the present: it is not a repented error shaken loose from the life: it is a still quivering part of himself, bringing shudders and bitter flavors and the tinglings of a merited shame.
You know nothing about Hope, that immortal, delicious maiden forever courted forever propitious, whom fools have called deceitful, as if it were Hope that carried the cup of disappointment, whereas it is her deadly enemy, Certainty, whom she only escapes by transformation.
Whether happiness may come or not, one should try and prepare one's self to do without it.
With thy coming melody was come. This was thy lot, to feel, create, bestow, and that immeasurable life to know from which the fleshly self falls shriveled, dead, a seed primeval that has forests bred.
You love the roses--so do I. I wish the sky would rain down roses, as they rain from off the shaken bush. Why will it not? Then all the valleys would be pink and white, and soft to tread on. They would fall as light as feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be like sleeping and yet waking, all at once. Over the sea, Queen, where we soon shall go, will it rain roses?
While the arm is strong to strike and heave, let soul and arm give shape that will abide.
Women know no perfect love: loving the strong, they can forsake the strong; man clings because the being whom he loves is weak and needs him.