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That cold accretion called the world, so terrible in the mass, is so non formidable, even pitiable, in its units.

Thomas Hardy

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Thomas Hardy
Age: 87 †
Born: 1840
Born: June 2
Died: 1928
Died: January 28
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Dorchester
Dorset
Mass
Terrible
Cold
Called
Earth
Accretion
Even
Pitiable
World
Formidable
Units

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The resolution to avoid an evil is seldom framed till the evil is so far advanced as to make avoidance impossible.
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If an offense come out of the truth, better is it that the offense come than that the truth be concealed.
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It is difficult for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs.
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You, and those like you, take your fill of pleasure on earth by making the life of such as me bitter and black with sorrow and then it is a fine thing, when you have had enough of that, to think of securing your pleasure in heaven by becoming converted!
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If the story-tellers could ha' got decency and good morals from true stories, who'd have troubled to invent parables?
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Well, these sad and hopeless obstacles are welcome in one sense, for they enable us to look with indifference upon the cruel satires that Fate loves to indulge in.
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I have felt lately, more and more, that my present way of living is bad in every respect.
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Yes quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down you'd treat if met where any bar is, or help to half-a-crown.
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you are absolutely the most ethereal, least sensual woman I ever knew to exist without inhuman sexlessness.
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To have lost is less disturbing than to wonder if we may possibly have won and Eustacia could now, like other people at such a stage, take a standing-point outside herself, observe herself as a disinterested spectator, and think what a sport for Heaven this woman Eustacia was.
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We ought to have lived in mental communion, and no more.
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Teach me to live, that I may dread The grave as little as my bed. Teach me to die.
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It was terribly beautiful to Tess today, for since her eyes last fell upon it she had learnt that the serpent hisses where the sweet birds sing.
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Is a woman a thinking unit at all, or a fraction always wanting its integer?
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Always wanting another man than your own.
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It was the touch of the imperfect upon the would-be perfect that gave the sweetness, because it was that which gave the humanity
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Somebody might have come along that way who would have asked him his trouble, and might have cheered him by saying that his notions were further advanced than those of his grammarian. But nobody did come, because nobody does and under the crushing recognition of his gigantic error Jude continued to wish himself out of the world.
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My weakness has always been to prefer the large intention of an unskilful artist to the trivial intention of an accomplished one: in other words, I am more interested in the high ideas of a feeble executant than in the high execution of a feeble thinker.
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A novel is an impression, not an argument and there the matter must rest.
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In the ill-judged execution of the well-judged plan of things the call seldom produces the comer, the man to love rarely coincides with the hour for loving
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