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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.
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
Awaits
Silent
Eternal
Silence
Enough
Long
Love
More quotes by George Eliot
Our consciousness rarely registers the beginning of a growth within us any more than without us there have been many circulation of the sap before we detect the smallest sign of the bud.
George Eliot
Joy and sorrow are both my perpetual companions, but the joy is called Past and the sorrow Present.
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It belongs to every large nature, when it is not under the immediate power of some strong unquestioning emotion, to suspect itself, and doubt the truth of its own impressions, conscious of possibilities beyond its own horizon.
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For years after Lydgate remembered the impression produced in him by this involuntary appeal-this cry from soul to soul, without other consciousness than their moving with kindred natures in the same embroiled medium, the same troublous fitfully-illuminated life.
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What business has an old bachelor like that to marry?' said Sir James. 'He has one foot in the grave.' 'He means to draw it out again, I suppose.
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It's them as take advantage that get advantage I' this world, I think: folks have to wait long enough afore it's brought to 'em.
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When we are suddenly released from an acute absorbing bodily pain, our heart and senses leap out in new freedom we think even the noise of streets harmonious, and are ready to hug the tradesman who is wrapping up our change.
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Subtle impressions for which words are quite too coarse a medium.
George Eliot
A woman's heart must be of such a size and no larger, else it must be pressed small, like Chinese feet her happiness is to be made as cakes are, by a fixed recipe.
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Knowledge slowly builds up what Ignorance in an hour pulls down.
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... when one's outward lot is perfect, the sense of inward imperfection is the more pressing.
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... one always believes one's own town to be more stupid than any other.
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May every soul that touches mine - be it the slightest contact - get there from some good some little grace one kindly thought one aspiration yet unfelt one bit of courage for the darkening sky one gleam of faith to brave the thickening ills of life one glimpse of brighter skies beyond the gathering mists - to make this life worthwhile.
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Iteration, like friction, is likely to generate heat instead of progress.
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Correct English is the slang of prigs.
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Her little butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between memory and dubious expectation.
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There are some cases in which the sense of injury breeds not the will to inflict injuries and climb over them as a ladder, but a hatred of all injury.
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Thought Has joys apart, even in blackest woe, And seizing some fine thread of verity Knows momentary godhead.
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No great deed is done by falterers who ask for certainty.
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What a wretched lot of old shrivelled creatures we shall be by-and-by. Never mind - the uglier we get in the eyes of others, the lovelier we shall be to each other that has always been my firm faith about friendship.
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