George MacDonald

George
MacDonald
1824
1905

Scottish Author, Poet and Minister known for his fairy tales and fantasy works

Author Quotes

We are dwellers in a divine universe where no desires are in vain - if only they be large enough.

What God may hereafter require of you, you must not give yourself the least trouble about. Everything He gives you to do, you must do as well as ever you can, and that is the best possible preparation for what He may want you to do next. If people would but do what they have to do, they would always find themselves ready for what came next.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

With every morn my life afresh must break the crust of self, gathered about me fresh; that thy wind-spirit may rush in and shake the darkness out of me, and rend the mesh the spider-devils spin out of the flesh- eager to net the soul before it wake, that it may slumberous lie, and listen to the snake.

It is when people do wrong things willfully that they are the more likely to do them again.

Let a man do right, not trouble himself about worthless opinion; the less he heeds tongues, the less difficult will he find it to love men.

Many a thief is a better man than many a clergyman, and miles nearer to the gate of the kingdom.

No one is likely to remember what is entirely uninteresting to him.

Of what use then is the Law? To lead us to Christ, the Truth-to waken in our minds a sense of what our deepest nature, the presence, namely, of God in us, requires of us-to let us know, in part by failure, that the purest efforts of will of which we are capable cannot lift us up even to the abstaining from wrong to our neighbor.

People must believe what they can, and those who believe more must not be hard upon those who believe less. I doubt if you would have believed it all yourself if you hadn't seen some of it.

Self, I have not to consult you but Him whose idea is the soul of you, and of which as yet you are all unworthy. I have to do, not with you, but with the Source of you, by whom it is that (at) any moment you exist-the Causing of you, not the caused you. You may be my consciousness but you are not my being. … For God is more to me than my consciousness of myself. He is my life; you are only so much of it as my poor half-made being can grasp-as much of it as I can now know at once. Because I have fooled and spoiled you, treated you as if you were indeed my own self, you have dwindled yourself and have lessened me, till I am ashamed of myself. If I were to mind what you say, I should soon be sick of you; even now I am ever and anon disgusted with your paltry mean face, which I meet at every turn. No! Let me have the company of the Perfect One, not of you! Of my elder brother, the Living One! I will not make a friend of the mere shadow of my own being! Good-bye, Self! I deny you, and will do my best every day to leave you behind.

That is always the way with you men; you believe nothing the first time; and it is foolish enough to let mere repetition convince you of what you consider in itself unbelievable.

The final end of the separation is not individuality; that is but a means to it: the final end is oneness-an impossibility without it. For there can be no unity, no delight of love, no harmony, no good in being, where there is but one. Two at least are needed for oneness.

The more I work with the body, keeping my assumptions in a temporary state of reservation, the more I appreciate and sympathize with a given disease. The body no longer appears as a sick or irrational demon, but as a process with its own inner logic and wisdom.

The Root of All Rebellion: It is because we are not near enough to Thee to partake of thy liberty that we want a liberty of our own different from thine

There are thousands willing to do great things for one willing to do a small thing

There was no pride, pomp, or circumstance of glorious war in this poor, domestic strife, this seemingly sordid and unheroic, miserably unheroic, yet high, eternal contest!

Thou goest thine, and I go mine— Many ways we wend; Many days, and many ways, Ending in one end. Many a wrong, and its curing song; Many a road, and many an inn; Room to roam, but only one home for all the world to win.

It matters little where a man may be at this moment; the point is whether he is growing

Let death do what it can, there is just one thing it cannot destroy, and that is life. Never in itself, only in the unfaith of man, does life recognize any sway of death.

Many a tower, many an outlook fair

No story ever really ends, and I think I know why.

Often in the summer, as I go to or come from the vestry, I sit down for a moment on the turf that covers my old friend Rodgers, and think that this body of mine is everyday moldering away, til it shall fall a heap of dust into its appointed place. But what is that to me? It is to me the drawing nigh of the fresh morning of life when I shall be young and strong again, glad in the presence of the wise and beloved dead, and unspeakably glad in the presence of God.

People talk about special providences. I believe in the providences, but not in the speciality. I do not believe that God lets the thread of my affairs go for six days, and on the seventh evening takes it up for a moment.

Sense of sin is not inspiration, though it may lie not far from the temple door. It is indeed an opener of the eyes, but upon home defilement, not upon heavenly truth.

Author Picture
First Name
George
Last Name
MacDonald
Birth Date
1824
Death Date
1905
Bio

Scottish Author, Poet and Minister known for his fairy tales and fantasy works