Public opinion’s always in advance of the law.
JOHN GALSWORTHYMemory heaps dead leaves on corpse-like deeds, from under which they do but vaguely offend the sense.
More John Galsworthy Quotes
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Honesty of thought and speech and written word is a jewel.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
A snowy, moonlit peak, with its single star, soaring up to the passionate blue; or against the flames of sunset, an old yew-tree standing dark guardian of some fiery secret.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
The talked-about is always the last to hear the talk . . .
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
Love could never come to full fruition till it was destroyed.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
Come! Let us lay a lance in rest, And tilt at windmills under a wild sky!
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
For the first time, as a family, they appeared to have an instinct of being in contact, with some strange and unsafe thing.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
Dreaming is the poetry of Life, and we must be forgiven if we indulge in it a little.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
Early morning does not mince words.
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 -
First one, then the other, getting the upper hand, and too seldom fusing till the result has the mellowness of full achievement.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
Under its influence, wholly or in part, have blossomed weekends, strong nerves, strong legs, strong language… equality of sex, good digestion and professional occupation – in four words, the emanicipation of women.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
He was afflicted by the thought that where Beauty was, nothing ever ran quite straight, which no doubt, was why so many people looked on it as immoral.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
I am still under the impression that there is nothing alive quite so beautiful as a thoroughbred horse.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
Beauty means this to one person, perhaps, and that to the other. And yet when any one of us has seen or heard or read that which to us is beautiful.
JOHN GALSWORTHY -
By the cigars they smoke, and the composers they love, ye shall know the texture of men’s souls.
JOHN GALSWORTHY