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But responsibility hardens the heart. It must.

Ford Madox Ford

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Ford Madox Ford
Age: 65 †
Born: 1873
Born: December 17
Died: 1939
Died: June 26
Journalist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Poet
Prosaist
Publisher
Writer
Merton
Ford Hermann Hueffer
Ford Madox Hueffer
Joseph Leopold Ford Hermann Madox Hueffer
Hardens
Responsibility
Must
Heart

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Yes, a war is inevitable. Firstly, there's you fellows who can't be trusted. And then there's the multitude who mean to have bathrooms and white enamel. Millions of them all over the world. Not merely here. And there aren't enough bathrooms and white enamel in the world to go round.
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It was an odd friendship, but the oddnesses of friendships are a frequent guarantee of their lasting texture.
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He wouldn't write a letter because he couldn't without beginning it 'Dear Sylvia' and ending it 'Yours sincerely' or 'truly' or 'affectionately.' He's that sort of precise imbecile. I tell you he's so formal he can't do without all the conventions there are and so truthful he can't use half of them.
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Mind, I am not preaching anything contrary to accepted morality. I am not advocating free love in this or any other case. Society must go on, I suppose, and society can only exist if the normal, if the virtuous, and the slightly deceitful flourish, and if the passionate, the headstrong, and the too-truthful are condemned to suicide and madness.
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The world is full of places to which I want to return
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If you hunch your shoulders too long against a storm your shoulders will grow bowed.
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What the artist wishes to do — as far as you are concerned — is to take you out of yourself. As far as he is concerned, he wishes to express himself.
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The first thing you have to consider when writing a novel is your story, and then your story - and then your story!
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I couldn't regard myself as personally repulsive. No man can, or, if he ever comes to do so, that is the end of him.
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The instances of honesty that one comes across in this world are just as amazing as the instances of dishonesty. After forty-five years of mixing with one's kind, one ought to have acquired the habit of being able to know something about one's fellow beings. But one doesn't
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Damn it all, it's the first duty of a soldier - it's the first duty of all Englishmen - to be able to tell a good lie in answer to a charge.
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Why can't people have what they want? The things were all there to content everybody yet everybody has the wrong thing.
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They were simple, earnest people, those early Victorians, and had not yet learnt the trick of avoiding disturbing thoughts and sights.
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We are all so afraid, we are all so alone, we all so need from the outside the assurance of our own worthiness to exist.
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No author, I think, is deserving of much censure for vanity if, taking down one of his ten-year-old books, he exclaims: Great heavens, did I write as well as that then? for the implication always is that one does not write any longer so well and few are so envious as to censure the complacencies of an extinct volcano.
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The object of the novelist is to keep the reader entirely oblivious of the fact that the author exists - even of the fact he is reading a book.
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