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. FORSTERSpoon feeding in the long run teaches us nothing but the shape of the spoon.
More E. M. Forster Quotes
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Though life is very glorious, it is difficult.
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But the body is deeper than the soul and its secrets inscrutable.
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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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I believe in teaching people to be individuals, and to understand other individuals.
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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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One of the evils of money is that it tempts us to look at it rather than at the things that it buys.
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It is so difficult – at least, I find it difficult – to understand people who speak the truth.
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Only a writer who has the sense of evil can make goodness readable.
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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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One has two duties – to be worried and not to be worried.
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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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Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there?
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Life is sometimes life and sometimes only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish t’other from which . . .
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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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The final test for a novel will be our affection for it, as it is the test of our friends, and of anything else which we cannot define.
E. M. FORSTER






