The only books that influence us are those for which we are ready, and which have gone a little farther down our particular path than we have yet got ourselves.
E. M. FORSTERWhen you come back you will not be you. And I may not be I.
More E. M. Forster Quotes
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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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We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.
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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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What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives?
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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.
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She had been so wicked that in all her life she had done only one good deed-given an onion to a beggar. So she went to hell. As she lay in torment she saw the onion, lowered down from heaven by an angel. She caught hold of it. He began to pull her up.
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For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone.
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I have only got down on to paper, really, three types of people: the person I think I am, the people who irritate me, and the people I’d like to be.
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Think before you speak is criticism’s motto; speak before you think, creation’s.
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Spoon feeding in the long run teaches us nothing but the shape of the spoon.
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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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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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One must be fond of people and trust them if one is not to make a mess of life.
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But the body is deeper than the soul and its secrets inscrutable.
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The historian records, but the novelist creates.
E. M. FORSTER