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England still waits for the supreme moment of her literature--for the great poet who shall voice her, or, better still, for the thousand little poets whose voices shall pass into our common talk.
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
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Waits
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Littles
Literature
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Talk
England
More quotes by E. M. Forster
Our final experience, like our first, is conjectural. We move between two darkness's.
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For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone.
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He had shown her all the workings of his soul, mistaking this for love.
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Self-pity? I see no moral objections to it, the smell drives people away, but that's a practical objection, and occasionally an advantage.
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What the world most needs today are negative virtues - not minding people, not being huffy, touchy, irritable or revengeful.
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She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love.
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Ideas are fatal to caste.
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A work of art is never finished. It is merely abandoned.
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But I have seen my obstacles: trivialities, learning and poetry. This last needs explaining: the old artist's readiness to dissolve characters into a haze. Characters cannot come alive and fight and guide the world unless the novelist wants them to remain characters.
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Hope, politeness, the blowing of a nose, the squeak of a boot, all produce boum.
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By the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes.
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The present flowed by them like a stream. The tree rustled. It had made music before they were born, and would continue after their deaths, but its song was of the moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled again. Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed to apprehend life. Life passed. The tree rustled again.
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They had nothing in common but the English language.
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For you cannot have gentility without paying for it.
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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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I am so used to seeing the sort of play which deals with one man and two women. They do not leave me with the feeling I have made a full theatrical meal they do not give me the experience of the multiplicity of life.
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He had known so much about her once -what she thought, how she felt, the reasons for her actions. And now he only knew that he loved her, and all the other knowledge seemed passing from him just as he needed it most.
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Love is always being given where it is not required.
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One marvels why the middle classes still insist on so much discomfort for their children at such expense to themselves.
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She loved him absolutely, perhaps for half an hour.
E. M. Forster