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The stench of the trail of Ego in our History. It is ego - ego, the fountain cry, origin, sole source of war.

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
Patriotism
Sole
Ego
Cry
Stench
Source
Trail
War
Trails
History
Fountain
Origin

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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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Woman's reason is in the milk of her breasts.
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God's rarest blessing is, after all, a good woman!
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We are betrayed by what is false within
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Behold the life at ease it drifts, The sharpened life commands its course.
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See ye not, Courtesy is the true Alchemy, turning to gold all it touches and tries?
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The future not being born, my friend, we will abstain from baptizing it.
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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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A human act once set in motion flows on forever to the great account. Our deathlessness is in what we do, not in what we are.
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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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Among the Diaries beginning with the second quarter of our century, there is frequent mention of a lady then becoming famous for her beauty and her wit: an unusual combination, in the deliberate syllables of one of the writers, who is, however, not disposed to personal irony when speaking of her.
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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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Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.
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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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How many a thing which we cast to the ground, When others pick it up, becomes a gem!
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George Eliot has the heart of Sappho but the face, with the long proboscis, the protruding teeth of the Apocalyptic horse, betrayed animality.
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