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Constance Fenimore Woolson Quotes

Theories are like scaffolding: they are not the house, but you cannot build the house without them.

Theories are like scaffolding: they are not the house, but you cannot build the house without them.

Constance Fenimore Woolson
House, Theory, Scaffolding
Constance Fenimore Woolson (1892). “Anne”

Time is not so all-erasing as we think.

Constance Fenimore Woolson
Time, Thinking
Constance Fenimore Woolson (2015). “Anne”, p.177, Sheba Blake Publishing

My only wickedness is that I love you; my only goodness, the same.

Constance Fenimore Woolson
Love You, Wickedness, Goodness
Constance Fenimore Woolson (2015). “Anne”, p.391, Sheba Blake Publishing

It is easy to be humble when a greater is preferred; but when an inferior is lifted high above our heads, how can we bear it?

Constance Fenimore Woolson
Humble, Humility, Bears
Constance Fenimore Woolson (2015). “Anne”, p.17, Sheba Blake Publishing

Are we to go out with trumpets and tell everything we know, just because it is true? Is there not such a thing as egotistical truthfulness?

Constance Fenimore Woolson
Egotistical, Trumpets, Truthfulness
Constance Fenimore Woolson (1960). “Anne: A Novel”, p.170, Library of Alexandria

If we neglect our privileges, the gods take them from us.

Constance Fenimore Woolson
Gratitude, Privilege, Neglect
Constance Fenimore Woolson (2015). “Anne”, p.239, Sheba Blake Publishing

warm-heartedness generally begins at home, and those who are warm to others are warmer to themselves; it is but the overflow.

Constance Fenimore Woolson
Kindness, Home, Overflow
Constance Fenimore Woolson (2015). “Anne”, p.89, Sheba Blake Publishing

a daughter's love for a kind father ... is mixed with the careless happiness of childhood, which can never come again. Into the father's grave the daughter, sometimes a gray-haired woman, lays away forever the little pet names and memories which to all the rest of the world are but foolishness.

Constance Fenimore Woolson
Daughter, Memories, Father
Constance Fenimore Woolson (2012). “Anne: A Novel”, p.129, The Floating Press

In tangled wreath, in clustered gleaming stars, In floating, curling sprays, The golden flower comes shining though the woods These February days; Forth go all hearts, all hands, from out the town, To bring her gayly in, This wild, sweet Princess of far Florida - The yellow jessamine.

Constance Fenimore Woolson
Sweet, Stars, Flower
Clare Benedict, Constance Fenimore Woolson (1930*). “Five Generations (1785-1923): Being Scattered Chapters from the History of the Cooper, Pomeroy, Woolson and Benedict Families, with Extracts from Their Letters and Journals, as Well as Articles and Poems by Constance Fenimore Woolson”

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