Memory heaps dead leaves on corpse-like deeds, from under which they do but vaguely offend the sense.
JOHN GALSWORTHYA wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!
More John Galsworthy Quotes
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Society is built on marriage … marriage and its consequences.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
The value of a sentiment is the amount of sacrifice you are prepared to make for it.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
Westminster, was so unobtrusively American that his driver had some hesitation in asking for double his fare. The young man had no hesitation in refusing it.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
If you do not think about the future, you cannot have one.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
And to be stolen away from ourselves by Art is a momentary relaxation from that itching, a minute’s profound, and as it were secret, enfranchisement.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
Light-heartedness always made Soames suspicious – there was generally some reason for it.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
It isnot good enough tospend time and ink indescribing the penultimate sensations and physical movements of people getting into a state of rut, we all know them so well.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
A man is the sum of his actions, of what he has done, of what he can do, Nothing else.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
It isn’t enough to love people because they’re good to you, or because in some way or other you’re going to get something by it.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
One’s eyes are what one is, one’s mouth is what one becomes.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
Life calls the tune, we dance.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
It is by muteness that a dog becomes for one so utterly beyond value; with him one is at peace, where words play no torturing tricks.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
Love has no age, no limit; and no death.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
Love is not a hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind.
JOHN GALSWORTHY






