When you come back you will not be you. And I may not be I.
E. M. FORSTERMy temple stands not upon Mount Moriah but in the Elysian Field where even the immoral are admitted. My motto is ‘Lord, I disbelieve – help thou my unbelief.
More E. M. Forster Quotes
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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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One grows accustomed to being praised, or being blamed, or being advised, but it is unusual to be understood.
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One person with passion is better than forty people merely interested.
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At night, when the curtains are drawn and the fire flickers, my books attain a collective dignity.
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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.
E. M. FORSTER -
It is so difficult – at least, I find it difficult – to understand people who speak the truth.
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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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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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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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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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Life is sometimes life and sometimes only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish t’other from which . . .
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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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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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A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.
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The historian records, but the novelist creates.
E. M. FORSTER







