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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.
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
Love
Think
Thinking
Life
World
Answered
Seldom
Moments
Made
More quotes by E. M. Forster
But after all, what have we to do with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room.
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If God could tell the story of the Universe, the Universe would become fictitious.
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How can I know what I think till I see what I say?
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Intuition attracts those who wish to be spiritual without any bother, because it promises a heaven where the intuitions of others can be ignored.
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It is the function of the novelist to reveal the hidden life at its source: to tell us more about Queen Victoria than could be known, and thus to produce a character who is not the Queen Victoria of history.
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He doesn't want you to be real, and to think and to live. He doesn't love you. But I love you. I want you to have your own thoughts and ideas and feelings, even when I hold you in my arms.
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I really don't know what happens next -- one so seldom does.
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Science is better than sympathy, if only it is science.
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There has been, is, and always will be every conceivable type of person.
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The only books that influence us are those for which we are ready, and which have gone a little farther down our particular path than we have yet got ourselves.
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He educated Maurice, or rather his spirit educated Maurice's spirit, for they themselves became equal. Neither thought Am I led am I leading? Love had caught him out of triviality and Maurice out of bewilderment in order that two imperfect souls might touch perfection.
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Human beings have their great chance in the novel.
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He had shown her all the workings of his soul, mistaking this for love.
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Life never gives us what we want at the moment that we consider appropriate.
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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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Most of life is so dull that there is nothing to be said about it, and the books and talk that would describe it as interesting are obliged to exaggerate, in the hope of justifying their own existence.
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There was something better in life than this rubbish, if only he could get to it—love—nobility—big spaces where passion clasped peace, spaces no science could reach, but they existed for ever, full of woods some of them, and arched with majestic sky and a friend. . .
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Hardship is vanishing, but so is style, and the two are more closely connected than the present generation supposes.
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Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.
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Hope, politeness, the blowing of a nose, the squeak of a boot, all produce boum.
E. M. Forster