George Eliot, pen name of Mary Ann or Marian Evans
Timid people always reek their peevishness on the gentle.
To the receptive soul the river of life pauseth not, nor is diminished.
Vengeance is just: justly we rid the earth of human fiends who carry hell for pattern in their souls. But in high vengeance there is noble scorn: it tortures not the torturer, nor gives iniquitous payment for iniquity. The great avenging angel does not crawl to kill the serpent with a mimic fang; he stands erect, with sword of keenest edge that slays like lightning.
There's never a garden in all the parish but what there's endless waste in it for want o' somebody as could use everything up. It's what I think to myself sometimes, as there need nobody run short o' victuals if the land was made the most on, and there was never a morsel but what could find it's way to a mouth.
This is a puzzling world, and Old Harry's got a finger in it.
'Tis a petty kind of fame at best, that comes of making violins; and saves no masses, either. Thou wilt go to purgatory none the less.
To think of the part one little woman can play in the life of a man, so that to renounce her may be a very good imitation of heroism, and to win her may be a discipline.
Veracity is a plant of Paradise, and the seeds have never flourished beyond the walls.
There's no disappointment in memory, and one's exaggerations are always on the good side.
This is life to come, — which martyred men have made more glorious for us who strive to follow. May I reach that purest heaven, — be to other souls the cup of strength in some great agony, enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, beget the smiles that have no cruelty, be the sweet presence of a good diffused, and in diffusion ever more intense! So shall I join the choir invisible whose music is the gladness of the world.
'Tis God gives skill, but not without men's hand: He could not make Antonio Stradivarius's violins without Antonio.
Trouble comes to us all in this life: we set our hearts on things which it isn't God's will for us to have, and then we go sorrowing.
Was she beautiful or not beautiful? And what was the secret of form or expression which gave the dynamic quality to her glance? Was the good or the evil genius dominant in those beams? Probably the evil; else why was the effect that of unrest rather than of undisturbed charm? Why was the wish to look again felt as coercion, and not as a longing in which the whole being consents?
There's no pleasure i' living if you're to be corked up forever, and only dribble your mind out by the sly, like a leaky barrel.
This is the bitterest of all, to wear the yoke of our own wrong-doing.
Tis what I love determines how I love.
Trouble's made us kin.
Watch your own speech, and notice how it is guided by your less conscious purposes.
There's no rule so wise but what it's a pity for somebody or other.
This wonder which my soul hath found, this heart of music in the might of sound, shall forthwith be the share of all our race, and like the morning gladden common space: the song shall spread and swell as rivers do, and I will teach our youth with skill to woo this living lyre, to know its secret will; its fine division of the good and ill. So shall men call me sire of harmony, and where great Song is, there my life shall be. Thus glorying as a god beneficent, forth from his solitary joy he went to bless mankind.
To act with doubleness towards a man whose own conduct was double, was so near an approach to virtue that it deserved to be called by no meaner name than diplomacy.
True, he had dreamy visions of possibilities: there is no human being who having both passions and thoughts does not think in consequence of his passions - does not find images rising in his mind which soothe the passion with hope or sting it with dread.
There's no work so tirin' as danglin' about an' starin' an' not rightly knowin' what you're goin' to do next; and keepin' your face i' smilin' order like a grocer o' market-day for fear people shouldna think you civil enough.
Those bitter sorrows of childhood!-- when sorrow is all new and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless.
To an old memory like mine the present days are but as a little water poured on the deep.