Her little butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between memory and dubious expectation.
GEORGE ELIOTThe world is full of hopeful analogies and handsome, dubious eggs, called possibilities.
More George Eliot Quotes
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We want people to feel with us more than to act for us.
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It is a narrow mind which cannot look at a subject from various points of view.
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We are contented with our day when we have been able to bear our grief in silence, and act as if we were not suffering.
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It 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.
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I have nothing to tell except travellers’ stories, which are always tiresome, like the description of a play which was very exciting to those who saw it.
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Any coward can fight a battle when he’s sure of winning; but give me the man who has the pluck to fight when he’s sure of losing.
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Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.
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Conscience is harder than our enemies, Knows more, accuses with more nicety.
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That by desiring what is perfectly good, even when we don’t quite know what it is and cannot do what we would, we are part of the divine power against evil — widening the skirts of light and making the struggle with darkness narrower.
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A friend is one to whom one may pour out the contents of one’s heart, chaff and grain together, knowing that gentle hands will take and sift it, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.
GEORGE ELIOT -
There is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the first moments of our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it is to have suffered and be healed, to have despaired and have recovered hope.
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Every limit is a beginning as well as an ending.
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But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.
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What makes life dreary is the want of a motive.
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People are so ridiculous with their illusions, carrying their fool’s caps unawares, thinking their own lies opaque while everybody else’s are transparent, making themselves exceptions to everything, as if when all the world looked yellow under a lamp they alone are rosy.
GEORGE ELIOT