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I cherish my childish loves--the memory of that warm little nest where my affections were fledged.

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
Memory
Nest
Memories
Childish
Littles
Affections
Nests
Little
Cherish
Affection
Warm
Loves
Fledged

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We hand folks over to God's mercy, and show none ourselves.
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Animals are such agreeable friends - they ask no questions they pass no criticisms.
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There are men whose presence infuses trust and reverence.
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Religion, like all things, begins with self, And naught is known, until one knows himself.
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We mortals, men and women, devour many a disappointment between breakfast and dinner-time keep back the tears and look a little pale about the lips, and in answer to inquiries say, Oh, nothing! Pride helps and pride is not a bad thing when it only urges us to hide our hurts— not to hurt others.
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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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For pain must enter into its glorified life of memory before it can turn into compassion.
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Surely it is not true blessedness to be free of sorrow while there is sorrow and sin in the world. Sorrow is a part of love and love does not seek to throw it off.
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Life is very difficult. It seems right to me sometimes that we should follow our strongest feelings but then such feelings continually come across the ties that all our former life has made for us,--the ties that have made others dependent on us,--and would cut them in two.
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May I reach That purest heaven - be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty. Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, And in the diffusion ever more intense! So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world.
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In the vain laughter of folly wisdom hears half its applause.
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There is much pain that is quite noiseless and vibrations that make human agonies are often a mere whisper in the roar of hurrying existence.
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In our spring-time every day has its hidden growths in the mind, as it has in the earth when the little folded blades are getting ready to pierce the ground.
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It is as useless to fight against the interpretations of ignorance as to whip the fog.
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One has to spend many years in learning how to be happy.
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The tread Of coming footsteps cheats the midnight watcher Who holds her heart and waits to hear them pause, And hears them never pause, but pass and die.
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Hobbies are apt to run away with us, you know it doesn't do to be run away with. We must keep the reins.
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O the anguish of the thought that we can never atone to our dead for the stinted affection we gave them.
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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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History repeats itself.
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