Thomas Hardy

Thomas
Hardy
1840
1928

English Novelist, Poet and Victorian Realist

Author Quotes

You calculated how to be uncalculating, and are natural by art!

You can do anything with bayonets except sit on them.

You have never loved me as I love you--never--never! Yours is not a passionate heart--your heart does not burn in a flame! You are, upon the whole, a sort of fay, or sprite-- not a woman!

Whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?

You ride well, but you don't kiss nicely at all.

Where once we danced, where once we sang, Gentlemen, the floors are shrunken, cobwebs hang.

You was a good man, and did good things.

Where we are would be Paradise to me, if you would only make it so.

You, and those like you, take your fill of pleasure on earth by making the life of such as me bitter and black with sorrow; and then it is a fine thing, when you have had enough of that, to think of securing your pleasure in heaven by becoming converted!

Who's in the next room? - who? I seemed to see somebody in the dawning passing through, unknown to me.

Why doth IT so and so, and ever so, this viewless, voiceless Turner of the Wheel? The Dynasts. Fore Scene. Spirit of the Pities.

Why is it that a woman can see from a distance what a man cannot see close?

Why it was that upon this beautiful feminine tissue, sensitive as gossamer, and practically blank as snow as yet, there should have been traced such a coarse pattern as it was doomed to receive; why so often the coarse appropriates the finer thus, the wrong man the woman, the wrong women the man, many years of analytical philosophy have failed to explain to our sense of order

With all, the beautiful things of the earth become more dear as they elude pursuit; but with some natures utter elusion is the one special event which will make a passing love permanent for ever.

Yeobright had, in fact, found his vocation in the career of an itinerant open-air preacher and lecturer on morally unimpeachable subjects; . . . . He left alone creeds and systems of philosophy, finding enough and more than enough to occupy his tongue in the opinions and actions common to all good men. Some believed him, and some believed not; some said that his words were commonplace, others complained of his want of theological doctrine; while others again remarked that it was well enough for a man to take to preaching who could not see to do anything else. But everywhere he was kindly received, for the story of his life had become generally known.

Yes; quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down you'd treat if met where any bar is, or help to half-a-crown.

Yes; quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down you'd treat if met where any bar is, or help to half-a-crown.

Yet, though love is thus an end in itself, it must be believed to be the means to another end if it is to assume the rosy hues of an unalloyed pleasure.

Yonder a maid and her wight / Come whispering by: / War's annals will cloud into night/ Ere their story die.

A blaze of love, and extinction, was better than a lantern glimmer of the same which should last long years.

And yet to every bad there is a worse.

Don't you go believing in sayings, Picotee: they are all made by men, for their own advantages. Women who use public proverbs as a guide through events are those who have not ingenuity enough to make private ones as each event occurs.

Here is the ancient floor, foot-worn and hollowed and thin here was the former door where the dead feet walked in.

In the ill-judged execution of the well-judged plan of things the call seldom produces the comer, the man to love rarely coincides with the hour for loving. Nature does not often say See! to her poor creature at a time when seeing can lead to happy doing; or reply Here! to a body's cry of Where? till the hide-and-seek has become an irksome, outworn game. We may wonder whether at the acme and summit of the human progress these anachronisms will be corrected by a finer intuition, a close interaction of the social machinery than that which now jolts us round and along; but such completeness is not to be prophesied, or even conceived as possible. Enough that in the present case, as in millions, it was not the two halves of a perfect whole that confronted each other at the perfect moment; a missing counterpart wandered independently about the earth waiting in crass obtuseness till the late time came. Out of which maladroit delay sprang anxieties, disappointments, shocks, catastrophes, and passing-strange destinies.

My opinion is that a poet should express the emotion of all the ages and the thought of his own.

Author Picture
First Name
Thomas
Last Name
Hardy
Birth Date
1840
Death Date
1928
Bio

English Novelist, Poet and Victorian Realist