If we could hear the squirrel's heartbeat, the sound of the grass growing, we should die of that roar.

George Eliot

George Eliot

Profession: Author
Nationality: British

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But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.

Our sense of duty must often wait for some work which shall take the place of dilettanteism and make us feel that the quality of our action is not a matter of indifference.

Impossible," said Mary, relapsing into her usual tone; "husbands are an inferior class of men, who require keeping in order.

I should be glad to see a good change in anybody, Mr. Godfrey.' she answered, with the slightest discernible difference of tone, 'but it 'ud be better if no change was wanted.

Dear heart, dear heart! But you must have a cup o' tea first, child, said Mrs. Poyser, falling at once from the key of B with five sharps to the frank and genial C.

All men needed the bridle of religion, which, properly speaking, was the dread of a Hereafter.

For we all of us, grave or light, get our thoughts entangled in metaphors, and act fatally on the strength of them.

I suppose it is the way with all men and women who reach middle age without the clear perception that life never can be thoroughly joyous: under the vague dulness of the grey hours, dissatisfaction seeks a definite object, and finds it in the privation of an untried good.

In the vain laughter of folly wisdom hears half its applause.

If you could make a pudding wi' thinking o' the batter, it 'ud be easy getting dinner.

I suppose it's the name: there's a deal in the name of a tune.

Love once, love always.

Mr. Casaubon had never had a strong bodily frame, and his soul was sensitive without being enthusiastic: it was too languid to thrill out of self-consciousness into passionate delight; it went on fluttering in the swampy ground where it was hatched, thinking of its wings and never flying.

Raveloe was a village where many of the old echoes lingered, undrowned by new voices. Not that it was one of those barren parishes lying on the outskirts of civilization—inhabited by meagre sheep and thinly-scattered shepherds: on the contrary, it lay in the rich central plain of what we are pleased to call Merry England, and.