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What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives?
E. M. Forster
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E. M. Forster
Age: 91 †
Born: 1879
Born: January 1
Died: 1970
Died: June 7
Biographer
Essayist
Librettist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
London
England
Edward Morgan Forster
E Forster
EM Forster
Tree
Stars
Literature
Lives
Sunrise
Good
Enter
Trees
Daily
Wind
More quotes by E. M. Forster
When I think of what life is, and how seldom love is answered by love it is one of the moments for which the world was made.
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I distrust Great Men. They produce a desert of uniformity around them and often a pool of blood too, and I always feel a little man's pleasure when they come a cropper.
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Death destroys a man, but the idea of death saves him.
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Democracy is not a Beloved Republic really, and never will be. But it is less hateful than other contemporary forms of government, and to that extent deserves our support.
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Expansion, that is the idea the novelist must cling to, not completion, not rounding off, but opening out.
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He had shown her all the workings of his soul, mistaking this for love.
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Railway termini are our gates to the glorious and the unknown
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You confuse what's important with what's impressive.
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Love is always being given where it is not required.
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Lord I disbelieve - help thou my unbelief.
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Words deserted him immediately. He could only speak when he was not asked to.
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Our final experience, like our first, is conjectural. We move between two darkness's.
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I really don't know what happens next -- one so seldom does.
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The Germans are called brutal, the Spanish cruel, the Americans superficial, and so on but we are perfide Albion, the island of hypocrites, the people who have built up an Empire with a Bible in one hand, a pistol in the other, and financial concessions in both pockets. Is the charge true? I think it is.
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Some reviews give pain. This is regrettable, but no author has the right to whine. He was not obliged to be an author. He invited publicity, and he must take the publicity that comes along.
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When we were only acquaintances, you let me be myself, but now you're always protecting me... I won't be protected. I will choose for myself what is ladylike and right. To shield me is an insult. Can't I be trusted to face the truth but I must get it second-hand through you? A woman's place!
E. M. Forster
Ulysses ... is a dogged attempt to cover the universe with mud, an inverted Victorianism, an attempt to make crossness and dirt succeed where sweetness and light failed, a simplification of the human character in the interests of Hell.
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As her time in Florence drew to a close she was only at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent.
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Pathos, piety, courage, they exist, but are identical, and so is filth. Everything exists, nothing has value.
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The book [ A Passage to India ] shows signs of fatigue and disillusionment but it has chapters of clear and triumphant beauty, and above all it makes us wonder, what will he write next?
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