George Eliot Quotes
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This is a puzzling world, and Old Harry's got a finger in it.
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To an old memory like mine the present days are but as a little water poured on the deep.
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If a man means to be hard, let him keep in his saddle and speak from that height, above the level of pleading eyes, and with the command of a distant horizon.
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Sane people did what their neighbors did, so that if any lunatics were at large, one might know and avoid them.
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Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand - ...
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People who write finely must not expect to be left in repose; they will be molested with thanks, at least.
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One gets a bad habit of being unhappy.
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Genius ... is necessarily intolerant of fetters.
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when a man had deserved his good luck, it was the part of his neighbours to wish him joy.
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Melodies die out, like the pipe of Pan, with the ears that love them and listen for them.
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An ass may bray a good while before he shakes the stars down.
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The beauty of a lovely woman is like music ... the rounded neck, the dimpled arm, move us by something more than their prettiness--by their close kinship with all we have known of tenderness and peace.
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Better spend an extra hundred or two on your son's education, than leave it him in your will.
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'An accomplished woman almost always knows more than we men, though her knowledge is of a different sort. I am sure you could teach me a thousand things-as an exquisite bird could teach a bear if there were any common language between them. Happily, there is a common language between women and men, and so the bears can get taught.'
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People who love downy peaches are apt not to think of the stone, and sometimes jar their teeth terribly against it.
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A human life, I think, should be well rooted in some spot of a native land, where it may get the love of tender kinship for the face of earth, for the labors men go forth to, for the sounds and accents that haunt it, for whatever will give that early home a familiar, unmistakable difference amidst the future widening of knowledge.
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... when one's outward lot is perfect, the sense of inward imperfection is the more pressing.
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It is always good to know, if only in passing, charming human beings. It refreshes one like flowers and woods and clear brooks.
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the rich ate and drank freely, accepting gout and apoplexy as things that ran mysteriously in respectable families . . .
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No farther will I travel: once again My brethren I will see, and that fair plain Where I and song were born. There fresh-voiced youth Will pour my strains with all the early truth Which now abides not in my voice and hands, But only in the soul, the will that stands Helpless to move. My tribe remembering Will cry, ''Tis he!' and run to greet me, welcoming.
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But veracity is a plant of paradise, and the seeds have never flourished beyond the walls.
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It is not true that a man's intellectual power is, like the strength of a timber beam, to be measured by its weakest point.
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My childhood was full of deep sorrows - colic, whooping-cough, dread of ghosts, hell, Satan, and a Deity in the sky who was angry when I ate too much plumcake.
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Tito was experiencing that inexorable law of human souls, that we prepare ourselves for sudden deeds by the reiterated choice of good or evil that gradually determines character.