It was pleasant, too, to fling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in unfamiliar fastenings, to lean out into sunshine with beautiful hills and trees and marble churches opposite, and, close below, Arno, gurgling against the embankment of the road.
E. M. FORSTERHave you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time – beautiful?
More E. M. Forster Quotes
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One always tends to overpraise a long book, because one has got through it.
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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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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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It makes a difference doesn’t it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?
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One grows accustomed to being praised, or being blamed, or being advised, but it is unusual to be understood.
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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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What is wonderful about great literature is that it transforms the man who reads it towards the condition of the man who wrote.
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Most of life is so dull that there is nothing to be said about it, and the books and talks that would describe it as interesting are obliged to exaggerate, in the hope of justifying their own existence.
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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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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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Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.
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The people I respect most behave as if they were immortal and as if society was eternal.
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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 -
Life never gives us what we want at the moment that we consider appropriate.
E. M. FORSTER