It was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a bright bare room, with a floor of red tiles which look clean though they are not; with a painted ceiling whereon pink griffins and blue amorini sport in a forest of yellow violins and bassoons.
E. M. FORSTERI am sure that if the mothers of various nations could meet, there would be no more wars.
More E. M. Forster Quotes
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Life never gives us what we want at the moment that we consider appropriate.
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People have their own deaths as well as their own lives, and even if there is nothing beyond death, we shall differ in our nothingness.
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Railway termini are our gates to the glorious and the unknown
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The other damned saw what was happening and caught hold of it too. She was indignant and cried, “Let go-it’s my onion,” and as soon as she said, “my onion,” the stalk broke and she fell back into the flames.
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Sometimes I think too much fuss is made about marriage. Century after century of carnal embracement and we’re still no nearer to understanding one another.
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You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you.
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The emotions may be endless. The more we express them, the more we may have to express.
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Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them.
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School was the unhappiest time of my life and the worst trick it ever played on me was to pretend that it was the world in miniature. For it hindered me from discovering how lovely and delightful and kind the world can be, and how much of it is intelligible.
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We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand.
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Books have to be read it is the only way of discovering what they contain.
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We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm – yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.
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We move between two darknesses.
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A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.
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It isn’t possible to love and to part.
E. M. FORSTER






