A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.
E. M. FORSTERI would rather be a coward than brave because people hurt you when you are brave.
More E. M. Forster Quotes
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It is easy to sympathize at a distance,’ said an old gentleman with a beard. ‘I value more the kind word that is spoken close to my ear.
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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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Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.
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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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The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world.
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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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I am sure that if the mothers of various nations could meet, there would be no more wars.
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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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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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Faith, to my mind, is a stiffening process, a sort of mental starch, which ought to be applied as sparingly as possible. I dislike the stuff. I do not believe in it, for its own sake, at all… My lawgivers are Erasmus and Montaigne, not Moses and St Paul.
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Unless we remember we cannot understand.
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The sort of poetry I seek only resides in objects Man can’t touch – like England ‘s grass network of lanes 100 years ago, but today he can destroy them and only Lord Farrer keeps him from doing it.
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One person with passion is better than forty people merely interested.
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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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Outside the arch, always there seemed another arch. And beyond the remotest echo, a silence.
E. M. FORSTER