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There is nothing the body suffers which the soul may not profit by.

George Meredith

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George Meredith
Age: 81 †
Born: 1828
Born: February 12
Died: 1909
Died: May 18
Novelist
Poet
Prosaist
Writer
Portsmouth
England
Suffers
Adversity
Profit
Suffering
Body
May
Soul
Nothing

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A woman who is not quite a fool will forgive your being but a man, if you are surely that. . .
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Woman's reason is in the milk of her breasts.
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Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out heaven is my need.
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Caricature is rough truth.
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Behold the life at ease it drifts, The sharpened life commands its course.
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Much benevolence of the passive order may be traced to a disinclination to inflict pain upon oneself.
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Always imitate the behaviour of the winners when you lose.
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The sun is coming down to earth, and the fields and the waters shout to him golden shouts.
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A witty woman is a treasure a witty beauty is a power.
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I expect Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man.
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Jealousy is love bed of burning snarl.
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The song seraphically free Of taint of personality, So pure that it salutes the suns The voice of one for millions, In whom the millions rejoice For giving their one spirit voice.
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We are betrayed by what is false within
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When I was quite a boy I had a spasm of religion which lasted six weeks... But I never since have swallowed the Christian fable.
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The future not being born, my friend, we will abstain from baptizing it.
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Published memoirs indicate the end of a man's activity, and that he acknowledges the end.
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My religion of life is always to be cheerful.
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She [Comedy] it is who proposes the correcting of pretentiousness, of inflation, of dulness, and of the vestiges of rawness and grossness to be found among us. She is the ultimate civilizer, the polisher, a sweet cook.
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It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parson and Doctor!--don't they love rarely Fighting the devil in other men's fields! Stand up yourself and match him fairly: Then see how the rascal yields!
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Days, when the ball of our vision Had eagles that flew unabashed to sun When the graps on the bow was decision, And arrow and hand and eye were one When the Pleasures, like waves to a swimmer, Came heaving for rapture ahead! - Invoke them, they dwindle, they glimmer As lights over mounds of the dead.
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