George Eliot, pen name of Mary Ann or Marian Evans
Who that cares much to know the history of man, and how the mysterious mixture behaves under the varying experiments of Time, has not dwelt, at least briefly, on the life of Saint Theresa, has not smiled with some gentleness at the thought of the little girl walking forth one morning hand-in-hand with her still smaller brother, to go and seek martyrdom in the country of the Moors? Out they toddled from rugged Avila, wide-eyed and helpless-looking as two fawns, but with human hearts, already beating to a national idea; until domestic reality met them in the shape of uncles, and turned them back from their great resolve. That child-pilgrimage was a fit beginning. Theresa's passionate, ideal nature demanded an epic life: what were many-volumed romances of chivalry and the social conquests of a brilliant girl to her? Her flame quickly burned up that light fuel; and, fed from within, soared after some illimitable satisfaction, some object which would never justify weariness, which would reconcile self-despair with the rapturous consciousness of life beyond self. She found her epos in the reform of a religious order.
Wouldst thou have asked aught else from any god whether with gleaming feet on earth he trod or thundered through the skies — aught else for share of mortal good, than in thy soul to bear the growth of song, and feel the sweet unrest of the world's spring-tide in thy conscious breast? No, thou hadst grasped thy lot with all its pain, nor loosed it any painless lot to gain where music's voice was silent; for thy fate was human music's self incorporate: thy senses' keenness and thy passionate strife were flesh of her flesh and her womb of Life.
You told me the truth when you said to me once, "There's a sort of wrong that can never be made up for".
When we are treated well, we naturally begin to think that we are not altogether unmeritous, and that it is only just we should treat ourselves well, and not mar our own good fortune.
Who with repentance is not satisfied, is not of heaven, nor earth.
Yes! thank God; human feeling is like the mighty rivers that bless the earth: it does not wait for beauty - it flows with resistless force and brings beauty with it... There are few prophets in the world; few sublimely beautiful women; few heroes. I can't afford to give all my love and reverence to such rarities: I want a great deal of those feelings for my everyday fellow-men, especially for the few in the foreground of the great multitude, whose faces I know, whose hands I touch, for whom I have to make way with kindly courtesy.
You want to find out a mode of renunciation that will be an escape from pain. I tell you again, there is no such escape possible except by perverting or mutilating one's nature.
When we get to wishing a great deal for ourselves, whatever we get soon turns into mere limitation and exclusion.
Will not a tiny speck very close to our vision blot out the glory of the world, and leave only a margin by which we see the blot? I know no speck so troublesome as self.
Yes, but not my style of woman: I like a woman who lays herself out a little more to please us. There should be a little filigree about a woman--something of the coquette. A man likes a sort of challenge. The more of a dead set she makes at you the better.
Young love-making, that gossamer web! Even the points it clings to - the things whence its subtle interlacings are swung - are scarcely perceptible: momentary touches of fingertips, meetings of rays from blue and dark orbs, unfinished phrases, lightest changes of cheek and lip, faintest tremors. The web itself is made of spontaneous beliefs and indefinable joys, yearnings of one life toward another, visions of completeness, indefinite trust.
When what is good comes of age, and is likely to live, there is reason for rejoicing.
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.