If you deliver an opinion at all, it is mere stupidity not to do it with an air of conviction and well-founded knowledge. You make it your own in uttering it, and naturally get fond of it.
GEORGE ELIOTIf you deliver an opinion at all, it is mere stupidity not to do it with an air of conviction and well-founded knowledge. You make it your own in uttering it, and naturally get fond of it.
More George Eliot Quotes
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In bed our yesterdays are too oppressive: if a man can only get up, though it be but to whistle or to smoke, he has a present which offers some resistance to the past-sensations which assert themselves against tyrannous memories.
GEORGE ELIOT -
there are two ways of speaking an audience will always like: one is, to tell them what they don’t understand; and the other is, to tell them what they’re used to.
GEORGE ELIOT -
Human feeling is like the mighty rivers that bless the earth: it does not wait for beauty – it flows with resistless force and brings beauty with it.
GEORGE ELIOT -
The right to rebellion is the right to seek a higher rule, and not to wander in mere lawlessness.
GEORGE ELIOT -
It is always good to know, if only in passing, charming human beings. It refreshes one like flowers and woods and clear brooks.
GEORGE ELIOT -
It’s never too late to be who you were meant to be.
GEORGE ELIOT -
Consequences are unpitying.
GEORGE ELIOT -
What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?
GEORGE ELIOT -
There is a great deal of unmapped country within us.
GEORGE ELIOT -
We are led on, like little children, by a way we know not.
GEORGE ELIOT -
Religious ideas have the fate of melodies, which, once set afloat in the world, are taken up by all sorts of instruments, some of them woefully coarse, feeble, or out of tune, until people are in danger of crying out that the melody itself is detestable.
GEORGE ELIOT -
I carry my unwritten poems in cipher on my face!
GEORGE ELIOT -
Life seems to go on without effort when I am filled with music.
GEORGE ELIOT -
The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone.
GEORGE ELIOT -
Her little butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between memory and dubious expectation.
GEORGE ELIOT