Quotes George Eliot - page 9
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Perhaps the most delightful friendships are those in which there is much agreement, much disputation, and yet more personal liking.
Best friend, my well-spring in the wilderness!
'Tis God gives skill, but not without men's hand: He could not make Antonio Stradivarius's violins without Antonio.
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No soul is desolate as long as there is a human being for whom it can feel trust and reverence.
How unspeakably the lengthening of memories in common endears our old friends!
Friendships begin with liking or gratitude- roots that can be pulled up.
For character too is a process and an unfolding. . . among our valued friends is there not someone or other who is a little too self confident and disdainful. . . .
It is hard to believe long together that anything is "worth while," unless there is some eye to kindle in common with our own, some brief word uttered now and then to imply that what is infinitely precious to us is precious alike to another mind.
Mortals are easily tempted to pinch the life out of their neighbour's buzzing glory, and think that such killing is no murder.
I have nothing to tell except travellers' stories, which are always tiresome, like the description of a play which was very exciting to those who saw it.
There are glances of hatred that stab, and raise no cry of murder.
Some gentlemen have made an amazing figure in literature by general discontent with the universe as a trap of dulness into which their great souls have fallen by mistake; but the sense of a stupendous self and an insignificant world may have its consolations. Lydgate's discontent was much harder to bear; it was the sense that there was a grand existence in thought and effective action lying around him, while his self was being narrowed into the miserable isolation of egoistic fears, and vulgar anxieties for events that might allay such fears.
You must mind and not lower the Church in people's eyes by seeming to be frightened about it for such a little thing.
Love is frightened at the intervals of insensibility and callousness that encroach by little and little on the domain of grief, and it makes efforts to recall the keenness of the first anguish.
Our deeds are like children that are born to us; they live and act apart from our own will. Nay, children may be strangled, but deeds never: they have an indestructible life both in and out of our consciousness.
Blessed is the man who, having nothing to say, abstains from giving us wordy evidence of the fact.
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