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The man of science is nothing if not a poet gone wrong.

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
Nothing
Men
Poet
Poetry
Gone
Wrong
Science

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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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Behold the life at ease it drifts, The sharpened life commands its course.
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I expect Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man.
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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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There is nothing the body suffers which the soul may not profit by.
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Caricature is rough truth.
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That rarest gift to Beauty, Common Sense!
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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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We are betrayed by what is false within
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Earth, the mother of all, Moves on her stedfast way, Gathering, flinging, sowing. Mortals, we live in her day, She in her children is growing.
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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.
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A witty woman is a treasure a witty beauty is a power.
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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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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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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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Woman's reason is in the milk of her breasts.
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Chance works for us when we are good captains.
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Published memoirs indicate the end of a man's activity, and that he acknowledges the end.
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Faith works miracles. At least it allows time for them.
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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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