Quote

Deeds are the pulse of Time, his beating life, And righteous or unrighteous, being done, Must throb in after-throbs till Time itself Be laid in stillness, and the universe Quiver and breathe upon no mirror more.

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
Quiver
Life
Mirrors
Pulse
Deeds
Breathe
Beating
Upon
Stillness
Universe
Righteous
Unrighteous
Done
Laid
Throbs
Must
Mirror
Throb
Time
Till

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When gratitude has become a matter of reasoning there are many ways of escaping from its bonds.
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There is no hour that has not its births of gladness and despair, no morning brightness that does not bring new sickness to desolation as well as new forces to genius and love. There are so many of us, and our lots are so different, what wonder that Nature's mood is often in harsh contrast with the great crisis of our lives?
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The reward of one duty is the power to fulfill another.
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To have in general but little feeling, seems to be the only security against feeling too much on any particular occasion.
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Can any man or woman choose duties? No more than they can choose their birthplace or their father and mother.
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Eros has degenerated he began by introducing order and harmony, and now he brings back chaos.
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It is better - it shall be better with me because I have known you.
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We cannot reform our forefathers.
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There is no sorrow I have thought more about than that-to love what is great, and try to reach it, and yet to fail.
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I like breakfast-time better than any other moment in the day. No dust has settled on one's mind then, and it presents a clear mirror to the rays of things.
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I flutter all ways, and fly in none.
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All honour and reverence to the divine beauty of form! Let us cultivate it to the utmost in men, women and children -- in our gardens and in our houses. But let us love that other beauty too, which lies in no secret of proportion but in the secret of deep human sympathy.
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That farewell kiss which resembles greeting, that last glance of love which becomes the sharpest pang of sorrow.
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I've had my say out, and I shall be the' easier for't all my life. There's no pleasure i' living, if you're to be corked up forever, and only dribble your mind out by the sly, like a leaky barrel.
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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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Of new acquaintances one can never be sure because one likes them one day that it will be so the next. Of old friends one is sure that it will be the same yesterday, today, and forever.
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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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No evil dooms us hopelessly except the evil we love, and desire to continue in, and make no effort to escape from.
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To the receptive soul the river of life pauseth not, nor is diminished.
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