George Eliot Quotes
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A supreme love, a motive that gives a sublime rhythm to a woman's life, and exalts habit into partnership with the soul's highest needs, is not to be had where and how she wills.
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Some set out, like Crusaders of old, with a glorious equipment of hope and enthusiasm and get broken by the way, wanting patience with each other and the world.
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Souls live on in perpetual echoes.
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Instead of trying to still his fears he encouraged them, with that superstitious impression which clings to us all, that if we expect evil very strongly it is the less likely to come; . . .
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Nature repairs her ravages, but not all. The uptorn trees are not rooted again; the parted hills are left scarred; if there is a new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the hills underneath their green vesture bear the marks of the past rending. To the eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no thorough repair.
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There's good chances and bad chances, and nobody's luck is pulled only by one string.
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So our lives glide on: the river ends we don't know where, and the sea begins, and then there is no more jumping ashore.
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… that modern sect of Flagellants who make a ritual of lashing - not themselves but - all their neighbours.
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‘Why, what can a man do when he takes to adoring one of you mermaids? He only neglects his work and runs up bills.’
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The mother's yearning, that completest type of the life in another life which is the essence of real human love, feels the presence of the cherished child even in the debased, degraded man.
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Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsion; and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every movement.
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It was a room where you had no reason for sitting in one place rather than in another.
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Knightly love is blent with reverenceAs heavenly air is blent with heavenly blue.
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Plainness has its peculiar temptations and vices quite as much as beauty.
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So to live is heaven: To make undying music in the world, Breathing a beauteous order that controls With growing sway the growing life of man.
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'There's folks as make bad butter and trusten to the salt t' hide it.'
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We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it...
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There was no gleam, no shadow, for the heavens, too, were one still, pale cloud; no sound or motion in anything but the dark river that flowed and moaned like an unresting sorrow.
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I see a face of love, Fair as sweet music when my heart was strong: Yea - art thou come again to me, great Song?' The face bent over him like silver night In long-remembered summers; that calm light Of days which shine in firmaments of thought, That past unchangeable, from change still wrought.
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Truth is the precious harvest of the earth. But once, when harvest waved upon a land, The noisome cankerworm and caterpillar, Locusts, and all the swarming foul-born broods, Fastened upon it with swift, greedy jaws, And turned the harvest into pestilence, Until men said, What profits it to sow?
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Those who trust us educate us.
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Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand - ...
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The soul of man, when it gets fairly rotten, will bear you all sorts of poisonous toad-stools, and no eye can see whence came the seed thereof.
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Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love...