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 GALSWORTHYHe 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 GALSWORTHYThere are moments when Nature reveals the passion hidden beneath the careless calm of her ordinary moods-violent spring flashing white on almond-blossom through the purple clouds.
JOHN GALSWORTHYOne can even tell the nature of one’s readers, by their preference for the work which reveals more of this side than of that.
JOHN GALSWORTHYHow to save the old that’s worth saving, whether in landscape, houses, manners, institutions, or human types, is one of our greatest problems, and the one that we bother least about.
JOHN GALSWORTHYIt is the continual, unconscious replacement, however fleeting, of oneself by another; the real cement of human life; the everlasting refreshment and renewal.
JOHN GALSWORTHYA man is the sum of his actions, of what he has done, of what he can do, Nothing else.
JOHN GALSWORTHYThose are the moments that I think are precious to a dog-when, with his adoring soul coming through his eyes, he feels that you are really thinking of him.
JOHN GALSWORTHYBeauty 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 GALSWORTHYThe talked-about is always the last to hear the talk . . .
JOHN GALSWORTHYHe might wish and wish and never get it – the beauty and the loving in the world!
JOHN GALSWORTHYThe beginnings and endings of all human undertakings are untidy.
JOHN GALSWORTHYLife calls the tune, we dance.
JOHN GALSWORTHYThe bicycle… has been responsible for more movement in manners and morals than anything since Charles the Second.
JOHN GALSWORTHYBy the cigars they smoke, and the composers they love, ye shall know the texture of men’s souls.
JOHN GALSWORTHYThe French cook; we open tins.
JOHN GALSWORTHYLove 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