Thomas Hardy Quotes
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My eyes were dazed by you for a little, and that was all.
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Many...have learned that the magnitude of lives is not as to their external displacements, but as to their subjective experiences. The impressionable peasant leads a larger, fuller, more dramatic life than the pachydermatous king.
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There is always an inertia to be overcome in striking out a new line of conduct – not more in ourselves, it seems, than in circumscribing events, which appear as if leagued together to allow no novelties in the way of amelioration.
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The main object of religion is not to get a man into heaven, but to get heaven into him.
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The beggarly question of parentage--what is it, after all? What does it matter, when you come to think of it, whether a child is yours by blood or not? All the little ones of our time are collectively the children of us adults of the time, and entitled to our general care. That excessive regard of parents for their own children, and their dislike of other people's, is, like class-feeling, patriotism, save-your-own-soul-ism, and other virtues, a mean exclusiveness at bottom.
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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.
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There's a friendly tie of some sort between music and eating.
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When yellow lights struggle with blue shades in hairlike lines.
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Do you know that I have undergone three quarters of this labour entirely for the sake of the fourth quarter?
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Like the British Constitution, she owes her success in practice to her inconsistencies in principle.
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The business of the poet and the novelist is to show the sorriness underlying the grandest things and the grandeur underlying the sorriest things.
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She was but a transient impression, half forgotten.
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That cold accretion called the world, so terrible in the mass, is so non formidable, even pitiable, in its units.
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Sometimes a woman's love of being loved gets the better of her conscience, and though she is agonized at the thought of treating a man cruelly, she encourages him to love her while she doesn't love him at all. Then, when she sees him suffering, her remorse sets in, and she does what she can to repair the wrong.
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There was now a distinct manifestation of morning in the air, and presently the bleared white visage of a sunless winter day emerged like a dead-born child.
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What is it, Angel?" she said, starting up. "Have they come for me?" "Yes, dearest," he said. "They have come." "It is as it should be," she murmured. "Angel, I am almost glad—yes, glad! This happiness could not have lasted. It was too much. I have had enough; and now I shall not live for you to despise me!" She stood up, shook herself, and went forward, neither of the men having moved. "I am ready," she said quietly.
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This hobble of being alive is rather serious, don’t you think so?
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All romances end at marriage.
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We colour and mould according to the wants within us whatever our eyes bring in.
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If Galileo had said in verse that the world moved, the inquisition might have let him alone.
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Dialect words are those terrible marks of the beast to the truly genteel.
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But no one came. Because no one ever does.
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You are Joseph the dreamer of dreams, dear Jude. And a tragic Don Quixote. And sometimes you are St. Stephen, who, while they were stoning him, could see Heaven opened. Oh, my poor friend and comrade, you'll suffer yet!
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We ought to have lived in mental communion, and no more.