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Life began with waking up and loving my mother’s face.
– George Eliot
Death is the king of this world: ‘Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.
Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.
Genius at first is little more than a great capacity for receiving discipline.
Acting is nothing more or less than playing. The idea is to humanize life.
Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.
The only failure one should fear, is not hugging to the purpose they see as best.
Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds.
In all private quarrels the duller nature is triumphant by reason of dullness.
The best augury of a man’s success in his profession is that he thinks it the finest in the world.
The beginning of compunction is the beginning of a new life.
Wear a smile and have friends; wear a scowl and have wrinkles.
More helpful than all wisdom is one draught of simple human pity that will not forsake us.
Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love.
It is never too late to be what you might have been.
Worldly faces never look so worldly as at a funeral. They have the same effect of grating incongruity as the sound of a coarse voice breaking the solemn silence of night.
Cruelty, like every other vice, requires no motive outside of itself; it only requires opportunity.
What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined – to strengthen each other – to be at one with each other in silent unspeakable memories.
There is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the first moments of our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it is to have suffered and be healed, to have despaired and have recovered hope.
Breed is stronger than pasture.
Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand.
Ignorant kindness may have the effect of cruelty; but to be angry with it as if it were direct cruelty would be an ignorant unkindness.
Harold, like the rest of us, had many impressions which saved him the trouble of distinct ideas.
When death, the great reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity.
The finest language is mostly made up of simple unimposing words.
There is a great deal of unmapped country within us which would have to be taken into account in an explanation of our gusts and storms.
Adventure is not outside man; it is within.
Is it not rather what we expect in men, that they should have numerous strands of experience lying side by side and never compare them with each other?
Might, could, would – they are contemptible auxiliaries.
But human experience is usually paradoxical, that means incongruous with the phrases of current talk or even current philosophy.