The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected.
E. M. FORSTERDon’t begin with proportion. Only prigs do that. Let proportion come in as a last resource, when the better things have failed.
More E. M. Forster Quotes
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Money pads the edges of things.
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… there are shadows because there are hills.
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But it struck him that people are not really dead until they are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunderstanding about them, they possess a sort of immortality.
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Don’t be mysterious; there isn’t the time.
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Only a writer who has the sense of evil can make goodness readable.
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But Humanity, in its desire for comfort, had over-reached itself. It had exploited the riches of nature too far. Quietly and complacently, it was sinking into decadence, and progress had come to mean the progress of the Machine.
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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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I believe in teaching people to be individuals, and to understand other individuals.
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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.
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I cannot help thinking that there is something to admire in everyone, even if you do not approve of them.
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So I shan’t ever marry, for there aren’t such men. And Heaven help any one whom I do marry, for I shall certainly run away from him before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.
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There’s never any great risk as long as you have money.
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I think you’re beautiful, the only beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I love your voice and everything to do with you, down to your clothes or the room you are sitting in. I adore you.
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Outside the arch, always there seemed another arch. And beyond the remotest echo, a silence.
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A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.
E. M. FORSTER