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Friendship, I fancy, means one heart between two.

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
Fancy
Friendship
Means
Two
Mean
Heart

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There is nothing the body suffers which the soul may not profit by.
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Behold the life at ease it drifts, The sharpened life commands its course.
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A witty woman is a treasure a witty beauty is a power.
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God's rarest blessing is, after all, a good woman!
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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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Full lasting is the song, though he, / The singer, passes.
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I expect Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man.
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Comedy is a game played to throw reflections upon social life, and it deals with human nature in the drawing-room of civilized men and women, where we have no dust of the struggling outer world, no mire, no violent crashes, to make the correctness of the representation convincing.
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Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.
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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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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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Woman's reason is in the milk of her breasts.
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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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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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Published memoirs indicate the end of a man's activity, and that he acknowledges the end.
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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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The sun is coming down to earth, and the fields and the waters shout to him golden shouts.
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Perfect simplicity is unconsciously audacious.
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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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Faith works miracles. At least it allows time for them.
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