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Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.
George Eliot
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George Eliot
Age: 61 †
Born: 1819
Born: November 22
Died: 1880
Died: December 22
Editor
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Philosopher
Poet
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Writer
Mary Anne Evans
Mary Ann Evans
Marian Evans
Mary Anne Evans Cross
Mary Anne Cross
Literature
Death
Never
Forgetfulness
Forgotten
Dying
Dead
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... when one's outward lot is perfect, the sense of inward imperfection is the more pressing.
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... it is because sympathy is but a living again through our own past in a new form, that confession often prompts a response of confession.
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A child, more than all other gifts That earth can offer to declining man, Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts. —WORDSWORTH.
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There's folks as make bad butter and trusten to the salt t' hide it.
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The beauty of a lovely woman is like music ... the rounded neck, the dimpled arm, move us by something more than their prettiness--by their close kinship with all we have known of tenderness and peace.
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Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand.
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I tell you there isn't a thing under the sun that needs to be done at all, but what a man can do better than a woman, unless it's bearing children, and they do that in a poor make-shift way it had better ha been left to the men.
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But that intimacy of mutual embarrassment, in which each feels that the other is feeling something, having once existed, its effect is not to be done away with.
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To be a poet is to have a soul so quick to discern, that no shade of quality escapes it, and so quick to feel, that discernment is but a hand playing with finely-ordered variety on the chords of emotion--a soul in which knowledge passes instantaneously into feeling, and feeling flashes back as a new organ of knowledge.
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O the anguish of that thought that we can never atone to our dead for the stinted affection we gave them, for the light answers we returned to their plaints or their pleadings, for the little reverence we showed to that sacred human soul that lived so close to us, and was the divinest thing God had given us to know!
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Explain! Tell a man to explain how he dropped into hell! Explain my preference! I never had a PREFERENCE for her, any more than I have a preference for breathing. No other woman exists by the side of her. I would rather touch her hand if it were dead, than I would touch any other woman's living.
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When we are dead : it is the living only who cannot be forgiven the living only from whom men's indulgence and reverence are held off, like the rain by the hard east wind .
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Enveloped in a common mist, we seem to walk in clearness ourselves, and behold only the mist that enshrouds others.
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A woman's rank Lies in the fulness of her womanhood: Therein alone she is royal.
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Mysterious haunts of echoes old and far, The voice divine of human loyalty.
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No anguish I have had to bear on your account has been too heavy a price to pay for the new life into which I have entered in loving you.
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Say I love you to those you love. The eternal silence is long enough to be silent in, and that awaits us all.
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Our instructed vagrancy, which has hardly time to linger by the hedgerows, but runs away early to the tropics, and is at home with palms and banyans - which is nourished on books of travel, and stretches the theatre of its imagination to the Zambesi.
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I shall do everything it becomes me to do.
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When a workman knows the use of his tools, he can make a door as well as a window.
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