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.
We are children of a large family, and must learn, as such children do, not to expect that our little hurts will be made much of - to be content with little nurture and caressing, and help each other the more.
We mortals, men and women, devour many a disappointment between breakfast and dinner-time; keep back the tears and look a little pale about the lips, and in answer to inquiries say, "Oh, nothing!" Pride helps us; and pride is not a bad thing when it only urges us to hide our own hurts--not to hurt others.
What furniture can give such finish to a room as a tender woman's face? And is there any harmony of tints that has such stirring of delight as the sweet modulation of her voice?
When a tender affection has been storing itself in us through many of our years, the idea that we could accept any exchange for it seems to be a cheapening of our lives. And we can set a watch over our affections and our constancy as we can over other treasures.
We are contented with our day when we have been able to bear our grief in silence, and act as if we were not suffering.
We must find our duties in what comes to us, not in what might have been.
What greater thing is there for human souls than to feel that they are joined for life - to be with each other in silent unspeakable memories.
When Cain was driven from Jehovah's land he wandered eastward, seeking some far strand ruled by kind gods who asked no offerings save pure field-fruits, as aromatic things, to feed the subtler sense of frames divine that lived on fragrance for their food and wine: wild joyous gods, who winked at faults and folly, and could be pitiful and melancholy. He never had a doubt that such gods were; he looked within, and saw them mirrored there.
We are led on, like little children, by a way we know not.
We mustn't be in a hurry to fix and choose our own lot; we must wait to be guided.
What if my words were meant for deeds.
When God makes his presence felt through us, we are like the burning bush: Moses never took any heed what sort of bush it was--he only saw the brightness of the Lord.
We are not apt to fear for the fearless, when we are companions in their danger.
We perhaps never detect how much of our social demeanor is made up of artificial airs, until we see a person who is at once beautiful and simple; without the beauty, we are apt to call simplicity awkwardness.
What is opportunity to the man who can't use it? An unfecundated egg, which the waves of time wash away into nonentity.
When gratitude has become a matter of reasoning there are many ways of escaping from its bonds.
We are on a perilous margin when we begin to look passively at our future selves, and see our own figures led with dull consent into insipid misdoing and shabby achievement.
We want people to feel with us more than to act for us.