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There's truth in wine, and there may be some in gin and muddy beer but whether it's truth worth my knowing, is another question.

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
Translator
Writer
Mary Anne Evans
Mary Ann Evans
Marian Evans
Mary Anne Evans Cross
Mary Anne Cross
May
Beer
Wine
Worth
Question
Knowing
Whether
Another
Gin
Truth
Muddy

More quotes by George Eliot

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There are answers which, in turning away wrath, only send it to the other end of the room, and to have a discussion coolly waived when you feel that justice is all on your own side is even more exasperating in marriage than in philosophy.
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But is it what we love, or how we love, That makes true good?
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People are so ridiculous with their illusions, carrying their fool's caps unawares, thinking their own lies opaque while everybody else's are transparent, making themselves exceptions to everything, as if when all the world looked yellow under a lamp they alone are rosy.
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Our sense of duty must often wait for some work which shall take the place of dilettanteism [sic] and make us feel that the quality of our action is not a matter of indifference.
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Religion, like all things, begins with self, And naught is known, until one knows himself.
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Here undoubtedly lies the chief poetic energy: - in the force of imagination that pierces or exalts the solid fact, instead of floating among cloud-pictures.
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I flutter all ways, and fly in none.
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The difficult task of knowing another soul is not for young gentlemen whose consciousness is chiefly made up of their own wishes.
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It is good to be helpful and kindly, but don't give yourself to be melted into candle grease for the benefit of the tallow trade.
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Anger seek it prey,-- Something to tear with sharp-edged tooth and claw, Like not to go off hungry, leaving Love To feast on milk and honeycomb at will.
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The bow always strung ... will not do.
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Sympathetic people often don't communicate well, they back reflected images which hide their own depths.
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It is always chilling, in friendly intercourse, to say you have no opinion to give.
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The select natures who pant after the ideal, and find nothing in pantaloons or petticoats great enough to command their reverence and love, are curiously in unison with the narrowest and pettiest.
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... one's own faults are always a heavy chain to drag through life and one can't help groaning under the weight now and then.
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Our impartiality is kept for abstract merit and demerit, which none of us ever saw.
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Perhaps the wind Wails so in winter for the summers dead, And all sad sounds are nature's funeral cries For what has been and is not.
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The first sense of mutual love excludes other feelings it will have the soul all to itself.
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Time, like money, is measured by our needs.
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Play not with paradoxes. That caustic which you handle in order to scorch others may happen to sear your own fingers and make them dead to the quality of things.
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