Blessed is the man who, having nothing to say, abstains from giving us wordy evidence of the fact.

Impressions of Theophrastus Such, chapter 4.

Share with your friends

More from George Eliot

Perhaps the wind
Wails so in winter for the summers dead,
And all sad sounds are nature’s funeral cries
For what has been and is not.

A difference of tastes in jokes is a great strain on the affections.

Chapter 15

I think my life began with waking up and loving my mother’s face: it was so near to me, and her arms were round me, and she sang to me.

Men’s men: gentle or simple, they’re much of a muchness.

The mother’s yearning, that completest type of the life in another life which is the essence of real human love, feels the presence of the cherished child even in the debased, degraded man.