When death, the great reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity.
GEORGE ELIOTWhen death, the great reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity.
GEORGE ELIOTThose who trust us educate us.
GEORGE ELIOTThe years between fifty and seventy are the hardest. You are always being asked to do things, and yet you are not decrepit enough to turn them down.
GEORGE ELIOTLove has a way of cheating itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitary hide-and-seek; it is pleased with assurances that it all the while disbelieves.
GEORGE ELIOTThe responsibility of tolerance lies with those who have the wider vision.
GEORGE ELIOTIt is painful to be told that anything is very fine and not be able to feel that it is fine–something like being blind, while people talk of the sky.
GEORGE ELIOTIt is pleasant to have a kind word now and then when one is not near enough to have a kind glance or a hearty shake by the hand.
GEORGE ELIOTMy own experience and development deepen every day my conviction that our moral progress may be measured by the degree in which we sympathize with individual suffering and individual joy.
GEORGE ELIOTI think I dislike what I don’t like more than I like what I like.
GEORGE ELIOTAll meanings, we know, depend on the key of interpretation.
GEORGE ELIOTHer little butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between memory and dubious expectation.
GEORGE ELIOTIf we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.
GEORGE ELIOTI like not only to be loved, but also to be told I am loved.
GEORGE ELIOTLife began with waking up and loving my mother’s face.
GEORGE ELIOTWill not a tiny speck very close to our vision blot out the glory of the world, and leave only a margin by which we see the blot? I know no speck so troublesome as self.
GEORGE ELIOTThe golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone.
GEORGE ELIOT