George Meredith Quotes - Page 2

Swift doth young Love flee, And we stand wakened, shivering from our dream.

Perfect simplicity is unconsciously audacious.

Published memoirs indicate the end of a man's activity, and that he acknowledges the end.

Full lasting is the song, though he, / The singer, passes.

When I was quite a boy I had a spasm of religion which lasted six weeks... But I never since have swallowed the Christian fable.

Memoirs are the backstairs of history.

A human act once set in motion flows on forever to the great account. Our deathlessness is in what we do, not in what we are.

The man or country that fights priestcraft and priests is to my mind striking deeper for freedom than can be struck anywhere.

It is the devil's masterstroke to get us to accuse him

Cultivated men and women who do not skim the cream of life, and are attached to the duties, yet escape the harsher blows, make acute and balanced observers.

Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along, Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughter Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feathered bosom Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset Rich, deep like love in beauty without end.

The sun is coming down to earth, and the fields and the waters shout to him golden shouts.

In tragic life, God wot, No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: We are betrayed by what is false within.

A house with a great wine stored below lives in our imagination as a joyful house, fast and splendidly rooted in the soil.

Ah, what a dusty answer gets the soul When hot for certainties in this our life! - In tragic hints here see what evermore Moves dark as yonder midnight ocean's force, Thundering like ramping hosts of warrior horse, To throw that faint thin fine upon the shore!

She poured a little social sewage into his ears.

Heiresses are never jilted.

Among the Diaries beginning with the second quarter of our century, there is frequent mention of a lady then becoming famous for her beauty and her wit: "an unusual combination," in the deliberate syllables of one of the writers, who is, however, not disposed to personal irony when speaking of her.

The stench of the trail of Ego in our History. It is ego - ego, the fountain cry, origin, sole source of war.

It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parson and Doctor!--don't they love rarely Fighting the devil in other men's fields! Stand up yourself and match him fairly: Then see how the rascal yields!

The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.

George Eliot has the heart of Sappho; but the face, with the long proboscis, the protruding teeth of the Apocalyptic horse, betrayed animality.

A woman who is not quite a fool will forgive your being but a man, if you are surely that. . .

But O the truth, the truth. The many eyes That look on it The diverse things they see.

O have a care of natures that are mute!