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Man may content himself with the applause of the world and the homage paid to his intellect, but woman's heart has holier idols.

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
Men
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World
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Intellect
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Woman
Holier
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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.
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My books don't seem to belong to me after I have once written them and I find myself delivering opinions about them as if I had nothing to do with them.
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How oft review each finding, like a friend, Something to blame, and something to commend.
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How could a man be satisfied with a decision between such alternatives and under such circumstances No more than he can be satisfied with his hat, which he's chosen from among such shapes as the resources of the age offer him. . . .
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What if my words Were meant for deeds.
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What quarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist in the presence of a great calamity, when all the artificial vesture of our life is gone, and we are all one with each other in primitive mortal needs?
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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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I have the conviction that excessive literary production is a social offence.
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... the true seeing is within and painting stares at you with an insistent imperfection.
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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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When God makes His presence felt through us, we are like the burning bush: Moses never took any heed what sort of bush it was—he only saw the brightness of the Lord.
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Every man who is not a monster, a mathematician, or a mad philosopher, is the slave of some woman or other.
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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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'Tis God gives skill, but not without men's hand: He could not make Antonio Stradivarius's violins without Antonio.
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There's folks 'ud stand on their heads and then say the fault was i' their boots.
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Ignorance ... is a painless evil so, I should think, is dirt, considering the merry faces that go along with it.
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Tis a petty kind of fame At best, that comes of making violins And saves no masses, either. Thou wilt go To purgatory none the less.
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I have nothing to tell except travellers' stories, which are always tiresome, like the description of a play which was very exciting to those who saw it.
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There's folks as make bad butter and trusten to the salt t' hide it.
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So deeply inherent is it in this life of ours that men have to suffer for each other's sins, so inevitably diffusive is human suffering, that even justice makes its victims, and we can conceive no retribution that does not spread beyond its mark in pulsations of unmerited pain.
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