Quote

Our passions do not live apart in locked chambers but dress in their small wardrobe of notions, bring their provisions to a common table and mess together, feeding out of the common store according to their appetite.

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
Small
Table
Chamber
Passion
Mess
Feeding
Common
Tables
Appetite
War
According
Passions
Provisions
Art
Dresses
Locked
Chambers
Together
Apart
Store
Notions
Live
Notion
Stores
Wardrobe
Bring
Dress
Provision

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We are overhasty to speak as if God did not manifest himself by our silent feeling, and make his love felt through ours.
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A difference of taste in jokes is a great strain on the affections.
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... one always believes one's own town to be more stupid than any other.
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The moment of finding a fellow-creature is often as full of mingled doubt and exultation, as the moment of finding an idea.
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Cruelty, like every other vice, requires no motive outside of itself it only requires opportunity.
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And when a woman's will is as strong as the man's who wants to govern her, half her strength must be concealment.
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If I have read religious history aright, faith, hope, and charity have not always been found in a direct ratio with a sensibility to the three concords and it is possible, thank heaven! to have very erroneous theories and very sublime feelings.
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Don't let us rejoice in punishment, even when the hand of God alone inflicts it. The best of us are but poor wretches, just saved from shipwreck. Can we feel anything but awe and pity when we see a fellow-passenger swallowed by the waves?
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That by desiring what is perfectly good, even when we don't quite know what it is and cannot do what we would, we are part of the divine power against evil -- widening the skirts of light and making the struggle with darkness narrower.
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The wrong that rouses our angry passions finds only a medium in us it passes through us like a vibration, and we inflict what we have suffered.
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Animals are such agreeable friends - they ask no questions they pass no criticisms.
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Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they can be wounded they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their presence.
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Iteration, like friction, is likely to generate heat instead of progress.
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To act with doubleness towards a man whose own conduct was double, was so near an approach to virtue that it deserved to be called by no meaner name than diplomacy.
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But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.
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It is in these acts called trivialities that the seeds of joy are forever wasted, until men and women look round with haggard faces at the devastation their own waste has made, and say, the earth bears no harvest of sweetness - calling their denial knowledge.
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There is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the first moments of our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it is to have suffered and be healed, to have despaired and have recovered hope.
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It seems to me as a woman's face doesna want flowers it's almost like a flower itself.... It's like when a man's singing a good tune, you don't want t' hear bells tinkling and interfering wi' the sound.
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