No story is the same to us after a lapse of time; or rather we who read it are no longer the same interpreters.
GEORGE ELIOTA good horse makes short miles.
More George Eliot Quotes
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An ass may bray a good while before he shakes the stars down.
GEORGE ELIOT -
Adventure is not outside man; it is within.
GEORGE ELIOT -
Blessed is the man, who having nothing to say, abstains from giving wordy evidence of the fact.
GEORGE ELIOT -
One has to spend many years in learning how to be happy.
GEORGE ELIOT -
There is hardly any contact more depressing to a young ardent creature than that of a mind in which years full of knowledge seem to have issued in a blank absence of interest or sympathy.
GEORGE ELIOT -
It is always good to know, if only in passing, charming human beings. It refreshes one like flowers and woods and clear brooks.
GEORGE ELIOT -
I like not only to be loved, but to be told that I am loved; the realm of silence is large enough beyond the grave.
GEORGE ELIOT -
Human feeling is like the mighty rivers that bless the earth: it does not wait for beauty – it flows with resistless force and brings beauty with it.
GEORGE ELIOT -
Conscientious people are apt to see their duty in that which is the most painful course.
GEORGE ELIOT -
Our deeds still travel with us from afar, and what we have been makes us what we are.
GEORGE ELIOT -
There are many victories worse than a defeat.
GEORGE ELIOT -
If you deliver an opinion at all, it is mere stupidity not to do it with an air of conviction and well-founded knowledge. You make it your own in uttering it, and naturally get fond of it.
GEORGE ELIOT -
Religious ideas have the fate of melodies, which, once set afloat in the world, are taken up by all sorts of instruments, some of them woefully coarse, feeble, or out of tune, until people are in danger of crying out that the melody itself is detestable.
GEORGE ELIOT -
When God makes His presence felt through us, we are like the burning bush: Moses never took any heed what sort of bush it was—he only saw the brightness of the Lord.
GEORGE ELIOT -
Her little butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between memory and dubious expectation.
GEORGE ELIOT