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Title: Quotations from the Project Gutenberg Editions of the Works of John Galsworthy

Author: John Galsworthy and David Widger

Release Date: October 1, 2002 [EBook #3459]

Language: English

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Title: Quotations from the Works of John Galsworthy

Author: David Widger

Release Date: October, 2002 [Etext #3459]

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Language: English

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This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>

QUOTATIONS FROM THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EDITION OF THE WORKS OF JOHN GALSWORTHY

by David Widger

CONTENTS:

The Forsyte Saga:

Volume 1. The Man of Property

Volume 2. Indian Summer of a Forsyte

In Chancery

Volume 3. Awakening

To Let

Other Novels:

The Dark Flower

The Freelands

Beyond

Villa Rubein and Other Stories

Villa Rubein

A Man of Devon

A Knight

Salvation of a Forsyte

The Silence

Saint's Progress

The Island Pharisees

The Country House

Fraternity

The Patrician

The Burning Spear

Five Short Tales

The First and Last

A Stoic

The Apple Tree

The Juryman

Indian Summer of a Forsyte

Essays and Studies:

Concerning Life

Inn of Tranquility

Magpie over the Hill

Sheep-shearing

Evolution

Riding in the Mist

The Procession

A Christian

Wind in the Rocks

My Distant Relative

The Black Godmother

Quality

The Grand Jury

Gone

Threshing

That Old-time Place

Romance—three Gleams

Memories

Felicity

Concerning Letters

A Novelist's Allegory

Some Platitudes Concerning Drama

Meditation on Finality

Wanted—Schooling

On Our Dislike of Things as They Are

The Windlestraw

About Censorship

Vague Thoughts on Art

Plays:

First Series:

The Silver Box

Joy

Strife

Second Series:

The Eldest Son

The Little Dream

Justice

Third Series:

The Fugitive

The Pigeon

The Mob

Fourth Series:

A Bit O' Love

The Foundations

The Skin Game

Six Short Plays:

The First and The Last

The Little Man

Hall-marked

Defeat

The Sun

Punch and Go

EDITOR'S NOTE

These extracts are paragraphs and short phrases which it is hoped may entice readers unfamiliar with Galsworthy to look over the books of this Nobel Prize winning author. Readers well acquainted with his works may wish to see if their favorite passages are listed in this selection. The etext editor will be glad to add your suggestions. One of the advantages of internet over paper publication is the ease of quick revision.

All the titles may be found using the Project Gutenberg search engine. After downloading a specific file, the location and complete context of the quotations may be found by inserting a small part of the quotation into the 'Find' or 'Search' functions of the user's word processing program.

The quotations are in two formats: 1. Small passages from the text. 2. An alphabetized list of one-liners.

The editor may be contacted at <widger@cecomet.net> for comments, questions or suggested additions to these extracts.

D.W.

WIDGER'S QUOTATIONS of JOHN GALSWORTHY

THE FORSYTE SAGA:

VOLUME 1. THE MAN OF PROPERTY /gutenberg/etext01/mnprp10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

The simple truth, which underlies the whole story, that where sex attraction is utterly and definitely lacking in one partner to a union, no amount of pity, or reason, or duty, or what not, can overcome a repulsion implicit in Nature.

The tragedy of whose life is the very simple, uncontrollable tragedy of being unlovable, without quite a thick enough skin to be thoroughly unconscious of the fact. Not even Fleur loves Soames as he feels he ought to be loved. But in pitying Soames, readers incline, perhaps, to animus against Irene: After all, they think, he wasn't a bad fellow, it wasn't his fault; she ought to have forgiven him, and so on!

"Let the dead Past bury its dead" would be a better saying if the Past ever died. The persistence of the Past is one of those tragi-comic blessings which each new age denies, coming cocksure on to the stage to mouth its claim to a perfect novelty.

The figure of Irene, never, as the reader may possibly have observed, present, except through the senses of other characters, is a concretion of disturbing Beauty impinging on a possessive world.

She turned back into the drawing-room; but in a minute came out, and stood as if listening. Then she came stealing up the stairs, with a kitten in her arms. He could see her face bent over the little beast, which was purring against her neck. Why couldn't she look at him like that?

But though the impingement of Beauty and the claims of Freedom on a possessive world are the main prepossessions of the Forsyte Saga, it cannot be absolved from the charge of embalming the upper-middle class.

When a Forsyte was engaged, married, or born, the Forsytes were present; when a Forsyte died—but no Forsyte had as yet died; they did not die; death being contrary to their principles, they took precautions against it, the instinctive precautions of highly vitalized persons who resent encroachments on their property.

"It's my opinion," he said unexpectedly, "that it's just as well as it is."

The eldest by some years of all the Forsytes, she held a peculiar position amongst them. Opportunists and egotists one and all— though not, indeed, more so than their neighbours—they quailed before her incorruptible figure, and, when opportunities were too strong, what could they do but avoid her!

"I'm bad," he said, pouting—"been bad all the week; don't sleep at night. The doctor can't tell why. He's a clever fellow, or I shouldn't have him, but I get nothing out of him but bills."

There was little sentimentality about the Forsytes. In that great London, which they had conquered and become merged in, what time had they to be sentimental?

A moment passed, and young Jolyon, turning on his heel, marched out at the door. He could hardly see; his smile quavered. Never in all the fifteen years since he had first found out that life was no simple business, had he found it so singularly complicated.

As in all self-respecting families, an emporium had been established where family secrets were bartered, and family stock priced. It was known on Forsyte 'Change that Irene regretted her marriage. Her regret was disapproved of. She ought to have known her own mind; no dependable woman made these mistakes.

Out of his other property, out of all the things he had collected, his silver, his pictures, his houses, his investments, he got a secret and intimate feeling; out of her he got none.

Of all those whom this strange rumour about Bosinney and Mrs. Soames reached, James was the most affected. He had long forgotten how he had hovered, lanky and pale, in side whiskers of chestnut hue, round Emily, in the days of his own courtship. He had long forgotten the small house in the purlieus of Mayfair, where he had spent the early days of his married life, or rather, he had long forgotten the early days, not the small house,—a Forsyte never forgot a house—he had afterwards sold it at a clear profit of four hundred pounds.

And those countless Forsytes, who, in the course of innumerable transactions concerned with property of all sorts (from wives to water rights)….

"I now move, 'That the report and accounts for the year 1886 be received and adopted.' You second that? Those in favour signify the same in the usual way. Contrary—no. Carried. The next business, gentlemen…." Soames smiled. Certainly Uncle Jolyon had a way with him!

Forces regardless of family or class or custom were beating down his guard; impending events over which he had no control threw their shadows on his head. The irritation of one accustomed to have his way was, roused against he knew not what.

We are, of course, all of us the slaves of property, and I admit that it's a question of degree, but what I call a 'Forsyte' is a man who is decidedly more than less a slave of property. He knows a good thing, he knows a safe thing, and his grip on property—it doesn't matter whether it be wives, houses, money, or reputation—is his hall-mark."—"Ah!" murmured Bosinney. "You should patent the word."—"I should like," said young Jolyon, "to lecture on it: 'Properties and quality of a Forsyte': This little animal, disturbed by the ridicule of his own sort, is unaffected in his motions by the laughter of strange creatures (you or I). Hereditarily disposed to myopia, he recognises only the persons of his own species, amongst which he passes an existence of competitive tranquillity."

"My people," replied young Jolyon, "are not very extreme, and they have their own private peculiarities, like every other family, but they possess in a remarkable degree those two qualities which are the real tests of a Forsyte—the power of never being able to give yourself up to anything soul and body, and the 'sense of property'."

An unhappy marriage! No ill-treatment—only that indefinable malaise, that terrible blight which killed all sweetness under Heaven; and so from day to day, from night to night, from week to week, from year to year, till death should end it.

The more I see of people the more I am convinced that they are never good or bad—merely comic, or pathetic. You probably don't agree with me!'

"Don't touch me!" she cried. He caught her wrist; she wrenched it away.

"And where may you have been?" he asked. "In heaven—out of this house!"

With those words she fled upstairs.

It seemed to young Jolyon that he could hear her saying: "But, darling, it would ruin you!" For he himself had experienced to the full the gnawing fear at the bottom of each woman's heart that she is a drag on the man she loves.

She had come back like an animal wounded to death, not knowing where to turn, not knowing what she was doing.

THE FORSYTE SAGA:

VOLUME 2. INDIAN SUMMER OF A FORSYTE & IN CHANCERY /gutenberg/etext01/isoaf10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

"What do you mean by God?" he said; "there are two irreconcilable ideas of God. There's the Unknowable Creative Principle—one believes in That. And there's the Sum of altruism in man naturally one believes in That.

She was such a decided mortal; knew her own mind so terribly well; wanted things so inexorably until she got them—and then, indeed, often dropped them like a hot potato. Her mother had been like that, whence had come all those tears. Not that his incompatibility with his daughter was anything like what it had been with the first Mrs. Young Jolyon. One could be amused where a daughter was concerned; in a wife's case one could not be amused.

"Thank you for that good lie.

Love has no age, no limit; and no death.

Did Nature permit a Forsyte not to make a slave of what he adored? Could beauty be confided to him? Or should she not be just a visitor, coming when she would, possessed for moments which passed, to return only at her own choosing? 'We are a breed of spoilers!' thought Jolyon, 'close and greedy; the bloom of life is not safe with us. Let her come to me as she will, when she will, not at all if she will not. Let me be just her stand-by, her perching-place; never-never her cage!'

….causing the animal to wake and attack his fleas; for though he was supposed to have none, nothing could persuade him of the fact.

It's always worth while before you do anything to consider whether it's going to hurt another person more than is absolutely necessary."

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

A thing slipped between him and all previous knowledge

Afraid of being afraid

Afraid to show emotion before his son

Always wanted more than he could have

Aromatic spirituality

As she will, when she will, not at all if she will not

Attack his fleas; for though he was supposed to have none

Avoided expression of all unfashionable emotion

Back of beauty was harmony

Back of harmony was—union

Beauty is the devil, when you're sensitive to it!

Blessed capacity of living again in the young

But it tired him and he was glad to sit down

But the thistledown was still as death

By the cigars they smoke, and the composers they love

Change—for there never was any—always upset her very much

Charm; and the quieter it was, the more he liked it

Compassion was checked by the tone of that close voice

Conceived for that law a bitter distaste

Conscious beauty

Detached and brotherly attitude towards his own son

Did not mean to try and get out of it by vulgar explanation

Did not want to be told of an infirmity

Dislike of humbug

Dogs: with rudiments of altruism and a sense of God

Don't care whether we're right or wrong

Don't hurt others more than is absolutely necessary

Early morning does not mince words

Era which had canonised hypocrisy

Evening not conspicuous for open-heartedness

Everything in life he wanted—except a little more breath

Fatigued by the insensitive, he avoided fatiguing others

Felt nearly young

Forgiven me; but she could never forget

Forsytes always bat

Free will was the strength of any tie, and not its weakness

Get something out of everything you do

Greater expense can be incurred for less result than anywhere

Hard-mouthed women who laid down the law

He could not plead with her; even an old man has his dignity

He saw himself reflected: An old-looking chap

Health—He did not want it at such cost

Horses were very uncertain

I have come to an end; if you want me, here I am

I never stop anyone from doing anything

I shan't marry a good man, Auntie, they're so dull!

If not her lover in deed he was in desire

Importance of mundane matters became increasingly grave

Intolerable to be squeezed out slowly, without a say youself

Ironical, which is fatal to expansiveness

Ironically mistrustful

Is anything more pathetic than the faith of the young?

It was their great distraction: To wait!

Know how not to grasp and destroy!

Law takes a low view of human nature

Let her come to me as she will, when she will ,

Little notion of how to butter her bread

Living on his capital

Longing to escape in generalities beset him

Love has no age, no limit; and no death

Man had money, he was free in law and fact

Ministered to his daughter's love of domination

More spiritual enjoyment of his coffee and cigar

Never give himself away

Never seemed to have occasion for verbal confidences

Never since had any real regard for conventional morality

Never to see yourself as others see you

No money! What fate could compare with that?

None of them quite knew what she meant

None of us—none of us can hold on for ever!

Not going to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds

Nothing left to do but enjoy beauty from afar off

Nothing overmastering in his feeling

Old men learn to forego their whims

One cannot see the havoc oneself is working

One could break away into irony—as indeed he often had to

One who has never known a struggle with desperation

One's never had enough

Only aversion lasts

Only Time was good for sorrow

Own feelings were not always what mattered most

People who don't live are wonderfully preserved

Perching-place; never-never her cage!

Philosophy of one on whom the world had turned its back

Pity, they said, was akin to love!

Preferred to concentrate on the ownership of themselves

Putting up a brave show of being natural

Quiet possession of his own property

Quivering which comes when a man has received a deadly insult

Self-consciousness is a handicap

Selfishness of age had not set its proper grip on him

Sense of justice stifled condemnation

Servants knew everything, and suspected the rest

Shall not expect this time more than I can get, or she can give

She used to expect me to say it more often than I felt it

Sideways look which had reduced many to silence in its time

Smiled because he could have cried

So difficult to be sorry for him

'So we go out!' he thought 'No more beauty! Nothing?'

Socialists: they want our goods

Sorrowful pleasure

Spirit of the future, with the charm of the unknown

Striking horror of the moral attitude

Sum of altruism in man

Surprised that he could have had so paltry an idea

Tenderness to the young

Thank you for that good lie

Thanks awfully

That dog was a good dog

The Queen—God bless her!

The soundless footsteps on the grass!

There was no one in any sort of authority to notice him

There went the past!

To seem to be respectable was to be

Too afraid of committing himself in any direction

Trees take little account of time

Unfeeling process of legal regulation

Unknowable Creative Principle

Unlikely to benefit its beneficiaries

Wanted things so inexorably until she got them

Waves of sweetness and regret flooded his soul

Weighing you to the ground with care and love

Went out as if afraid of being answered

What do you mean by God?

When you fleece you're sorry

When you're fleeced you're sick

Where Beauty was, nothing ever ran quite straight

Whole world was in conspiracy to limit freedom

With the wisdom of a long life old JoIyon did not speak

Witticism of which he was not the author was hardly to his taste

Wonderful finality about a meal

You have to buy experience

THE FORSYTE SAGA:

VOLUME 3. AWAKENING & TO LET /gutenberg/etext01/tolet10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

Coercion was unpopular, parents had exalted notions of giving their offspring a good time. They spoiled their rods, spared their children, and anticipated the results with enthusiasm.

And yet, in his inner tissue, there was something of the old founder of his family, a secret tenacity of soul, a dread of showing his feelings, a determination not to know when he was beaten. Sensitive, imaginative, affectionate boys get a bad time at school, but Jon had instinctively kept his nature dark, and been but normally unhappy there

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

A philosopher when he has all that he wants is different

Accustomed to assurance in the youthful manner

Adept at keeping things to herself

Admiration of beauty and longing for possession are not love

Afraid to enjoy to-day for fear he might not enjoy tomorrow

All else, then, was but preliminary to this!

But they could not keep his eyebrows down

Can you stand this spiritualistic racket?

Clear eyes and an almost depressing amount of common sense

Could fear go with a smile?

Delicacy became a somewhat minor consideration

Determination not to know when he was beaten

Difficult it is for elders to give themselves away to the young

Dinner—consecrated to the susceptibilities of the butler

Disliked the idea of dying

Felt suddenly he might say things she would regret

Fixed idea

Guileless snobbery of youth

How much better than men women play a waiting game

I've got it in the neck, only the feeling is really lower down

Inoculated against the germs of love by small doses

Lest by some dreadful inadvertence they might drop into a tune

Life's awful like a lot of monkeys scramblin' for empty nuts

Like a man uninsured, with his ships at sea

Lunch was the sort a man dreams of but seldom gets

Malaise of one who contemplates himself as seen by another

Men were judged in this world rather by what they were

Nobody can spoil a life, my dear

One does not precisely choose with whom one will fall in love

Only sort of life that doesn't hurt anybody; except art

Parasitically clinging on to the effortless close of a life

Private possession underlay everything worth having

Purpose of marriage was children, not mere sinful happiness

Question so moot that it was not mooted

Quiet tenacity with which he had converted a mediocre talent

Spoiled their rods, spared their children

Take himself seriously, yet never bore others

Tarred with cynicism, realism, and immorality like the French

The young have such cheap, hard judgment

They can't have my private property and my public spirit-both

Thought we were progressing—now we know we're only changing

To be kind and keep your end up—there's nothing else in it

Unless one believed there was something in a thing, there wasn't

Victory in defeat

Wishes father thought but they don't breed evidence

You are a giver, Jon; she is a taker

Younger every day, till at last he had been too young to live

Youth's eagerness to give with both hands, to take with neither

VILLA RUBEIN AND OTHER STORIES /gutenberg/etext01/vlrbn10.txt

Villa Rubein

A Man of Devon

A Knight

Salvation of a Forsyte

The Silence

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

I wish you would attend to your own faults, and not pry into other people's.

But I think that when we hope, we are not brave, because we are expecting something for ourselves. Chris says that hope is prayer, and if it is prayer, then all the time we are hoping, we are asking for something, and it is not brave to ask for things.

Then from in front I heard sobbing—a man's sobs; no sound is quite so dreadful.

"Ah!" muttered Mr. Treffry, "you're obstinate enough, but obstinacy isn't strength."

It has always been my, belief that a man must neither beg anything of a woman, nor force anything from her. Women are generous—they will give you what they can.

Has it ever struck you that each one of us lives on the edge of a volcano? There is, I imagine, no one who has not some affection or interest so strong that he counts the rest for nothing, beside it.

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

All I know is, I've got to work

Attend to your own faults, and not pry into other people's

Beastly as a vulgar woman's laugh

But one's alone when it comes to the run-in

Can we never have quite enough?

Charming generalities

Constitutionally averse to being pitied

Contentment that men experience at the misfortunes of an enemy

Could never tell exactly when to stop

Each one of us lives on the edge of a volcano

Every bird singing from the bottom of his heart

Fear and anger in me are very much the same

Free from all self-consciousness

Her imperfections were beautiful to me

How simply he assumed that he was going to be great

In a time of agony one finds out what are the things one can do

It seems always rude to speak the truth

Man can only endure about half his joy; about half his sorrow

Man must neither beg anything of a woman, nor force anything

Men who haven't the courage of their own ideas

Never grossly drunk, and rarely very sober

Not a bad rule that measures men by the balance at their banks

Obstinate enough, but obstinacy isn't strength

Only understand what they can see and touch

People may become utter strangers without a word

So sacred that they melt away at the approach of words

Spring; it makes one want more than one has got

Time is everything

What is it to be brave?

What's not enough for one is not enough for two

When things have come to a crisis, how little one feels

When we hope, we are not brave

With an air of sacrificing to the public good

Women are generous—they will give you what they can

You can't punish unless you make to feel

You may force a body; how can you force a soul?

You're glad that hope is dead, it means rest

SAINT'S PROGRESS /gutenberg/etext01/saint10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

The Russian proverb: "The heart of another is a dark forest."

We're used to it, you see; there's no excitement in what you're used to.

If geological time be taken as twenty-four hours, man's existence on earth so far equals just two seconds of it; after a few more seconds, when man has been frozen off the earth, geological time will stretch for as long again, before the earth bumps into something, and be comes nebula once more. God's hands haven't been particularly full, sir, have they— two seconds out of twenty-four hours—if man is His pet concern?

"People do not like you to be different. If ever in your life you act differently from others, you will find it so, mademoiselle."

She never went to meet life, but when it came, made the best of it. This was her secret, and Pierson always felt rested in her presence.

He opened the gate, uttering one of those prayers which come so glibly from unbelievers when they want anything.

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

Aesthetic admiration for that old Church

Agreed in the large, and differed in the narrow

All life seemed suddenly a thing of forms and sham

And I don't want to be forgiven

At my age one expects no more than one gets!

Avoided discussion on matters where he might hurt others

Conquests leading to defeats, defeats to conquests

Could not as yet disagree with suavity

Cunning, the astute, the adaptable, will ever rule in times of peace

Daddy's a darling; but I don't always believe what he believes

Depressing to think that I would go on living after death

Difficult for a good man to see the evil round him

Efforts to eliminate instinct

Events are the parents of the future

Events were the children of the past

For we are mad—nothing to speak of, but just a little

Forget all about oneself in what one is doing

God is the helping of man by man

Happiness never comes when you are looking for it

I don't believe, and I can't pray

I shall hate God for His cruelty

I think it's cruel that we can't take what we can while we can

If he'd drop the habits of authority

If you're not ashamed of yourself, no one will be ashamed of you

In opening your hearts you feel that you lose authority

It must be dreadful to grow old, and pass the time!

Let the dead past bury its dead

Life's a huge wide adaptable thing!

Man is His pet concern?

Marvellous speeder-up of Love is War

Men will be just as brutal afterwards—more brutal

My mistress, mademoiselle, is not a thing of flesh. It is art

Needs must when the devil drives—that's all

Oughtn't to mind us taking what we can

People do not like you to be different

Prayers which come so glibly from unbelievers

Revolt against a world so murderous and uncharitable

Seemed to know that in silence was her strength

She never went to meet life

Sheer pride; and I can't subdue it

Silence was her strength

So absorbed in his dismay and concern, that he was almost happy

Speak, or keep silent; try to console; try to pretend?

The heart of another is a dark forest

The talked-about is always the last to hear the talk

The tongue and the pen will rule them

Their lovering had advanced by glance and touch alone

There's no excitement in what you're used to

There's no room on earth for saints in authority

Things are; and we have just to take them

Too long immune from criticism

Too-consciousness that Time was after her

Trust our reason and our senses for what they're worth

Unself-consciousness

Voices had a hard, half-jovial vulgarity

Wake at night and hear the howling of all the packs of the world

We can only find out for ourselves

We can only help ourselves; and I can only bear it if I rebel

We can't take things at second-hand any longer

We do think we ought to have the run of them while we're alive

We love you, but you are not in our secrets

We want to own our consciences

We want to think and decide things for ourselves

What we do is not wrong till it's proved wrong by the result

World will go on the same

You really think God merciful, sir

You think I don't know my own feelings, but I do

THE ISLAND PHARISEES /gutenberg/etext01/saint10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

Their life seemed to accord them perfect satisfaction; they were supplied with their convictions by Society just as, when at home, they were supplied with all the other necessaries of life by some co-operative stores.

"Why should Oi give up me only pleasure to keep me wretched life in? If you've anything left worth the keeping shober for, keep shober by all means; if not, the sooner you are dhrunk the better—that stands to reason."

These letters of his were the most amazing portion of that fortnight. They were remarkable for failing to express any single one of his real thoughts, but they were full of sentiments which were not what he was truly feeling; and when he set himself to analyse, he had such moments of delirium that he was scared, and shocked, and quite unable to write anything. He made the discovery that no two human beings ever tell each other what they really feel.

There was nothing in that book to startle him or make him think.

And yet they were kind—that is, fairly kind—and clean and quiet in the house, except when they laughed, which was often, and at things which made him want to howl as a dog howls at music.

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

A contemptuous tolerance for people who were not getting on

Air of knowing everything, and really they knew nothing—nothing

As if man's honour suffered when he's injured

Autocratic manner of settling other people's business

Avoid falling between two stools

Bad business to be unable to take pride in anything one does

Begging the question

Believe without the risk of too much thinking

Casual charity

Christian and good Samaritan are not quite the same

Complacency

Contrived to throw no light on anything whatever

Cultured intolerance

Defying Life to make him look at her

Denial of his right to have a separate point of view

Discontent with the accepted

Don't like unhealthy people

Easy coarseness which is a mark of caste

Fresh journey through the fields of thought

>From a position of security, to watch the sufferings of others

Good form

Half a century of sympathy with weddings of all sorts

Happy as a horse is happy who never leaves his stall

Her splendid optimism, damped him

How fine a thing is virtue

Hypnotised and fascinated even by her failings

I never managed to begin a hobby

If tongue be given to them, the flavour vanishes from ideas

If you can't find anything to make you laugh, pretend you do

Kissed a strange, cold, frightened look, into her eyes

Lacked-feelers

Like a scolded dog, he kept his troubled watch upon her face

Man who never rebuked a servant

Misgivings which attend on casual charity

Moral asthma

Moral Salesman

Moral steam-roller had passed over it

Morality-everybody's private instinct of self-preservation

Morals made by men

Never felt as yet the want of any occupation

No two human beings ever tell each other what they really feel

Not his fault that half the world was dark

Nothing in that book to startle him or make him think

Of course! The words seemed very much or very little

One from whom the half of life must be excluded

Overwork personified

Potent law of hobbies controlled the upper classes

Professional intolerance

Putting into words things that can't be put in words

Secret that her eyes were not his eyes

Settled down to complete the purchase of his wife.

She had not resisted, but he had kissed the smile away

Sign of private moral judgment was to have lost your soul

Something new, and spiced with tragic sauce

Supplied with their convictions by Society

Sympathy that has no insight

To do nothing is unworthy of a man!

Too "smart" to keep their heads for long above the water

Truth 's the very devil

Unconscious that they themselves were funny to others

Weighty dignity of attitude

Well, I don't want to see the gloomy side

What humbugs we all are

What they do not understand they dread and they despise

What's called virtue is nearly always only luck

When we begin to be real, we only really begin to be false

Words the Impostors

THE COUNTRY HOUSE /gutenberg/etext01/chous10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

You want to build before you've laid your foundations," said Mr. Paramor.

"You let your feelings carry you away.

Next to him was Mrs. Hussell Barter, with that touching look to be seen on the faces of many English ladies, that look of women who are always doing their duty, their rather painful duty; whose eyes, above cheeks creased and withered, once rose-leaf hued, now over-coloured by strong weather, are starry and anxious; whose speech is simple, sympathetic, direct, a little shy, a little hopeless, yet always hopeful; who are ever surrounded by children, invalids, old people, all looking to them for support; who have never known the luxury of breaking down.

The Rector, who practically never suffered, disliked the thought and sight of others' suffering. Up to this day, indeed, there had been none to dislike, for in answer to inquiries his wife had always said "No, dear, no; I'm all right—really, it's nothing." And she had always said it smiling, even when her smiling lips were white. But this morning in trying to say it she had failed to smile. Her eyes had lost their hopelessly hopeful shining, and sharply between her teeth she said: "Send for Dr. Wilson, Hussell."

Man who, having turned all social problems over in his mind, had decided that there was no real safety but in the past.

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

Admiration: Love of admiration plays old Harry with women

Careless pity of the young for the old

Clothes were unostentatiously perfect

Decreed of mothers that their birth pangs shall not cease

Desired his emotion to be forgotten

Did not intend to think of the future—present is bad enough

Have never known the luxury of breaking down

Head had been rendered somewhat bald by thought

Hopelessly hopeful

Imagination he distrusted

Inborn sense that she had no need to ask for things

Inconsistency between his theory and his dismay

Infirmity had been growing on him ever since his marriage

Just as well be a dog as a girl, for anything anyone tells you

Man to whom things do not come too easily

Nature is ironical

No real safety but in the past

None of them wished to be the first to speak

Only command likely to be obeyed that came into his head

Only just waiting till to-morrow morning—to kill something

Pendyces never asked their way to anything

People won't make allowances for each other

Perceiving her to be a lady, he went away

She had been born unconscious of her neighbours' scrutinies

Stumbling its little way along with such blind certainty

Taken its stand no sooner than it must, no later than it ought

That which a well-bred woman leaves unanswered

Things that people do get about before they've done them!

Thrilling at the touch of each other's arms

What does 'without prejudice' in this letter mean?

Women who are always doing their duty, their rather painful duty

You want to build before you've laid your foundations

FRATERNITY /gutenberg/etext01/frtrn10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

Hilary was no young person, like his niece or Martin, to whom everything seemed simple; nor was he an old person like their grandfather, for whom life had lost its complications.

This tragedy of a woman, who wanted to be loved, slowly killing the power of loving her in the man, had gone on year after year.

The sentiment that men call honour is of doubtful value.

Hilary, who, it has been seen, lived in thoughts about events rather than in events themselves.

By love I mean the forgetfulness of self. Unions are frequent in which only the sexual instincts, or the remembrance of self, are roused.

Little things are all big with the past, of whose chain they are the latest links, they frequently produce what apparently are great results.

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

Aches to construct something ere he die

By love I mean the forgetfulness of self

Cheapness of this verbiage

Delighting in the present moment

Distrust of her own feelings to give way to them completely

"Each of us," he said, "has a shadow in those places."

Fear of meddling too much, of not meddling enough

Governed by ungovernable pride

Habit of thinking for himself

Human heart," he murmured, "is the tomb of many feelings."

I never suspected him of goin' to live

I will not consent to be a drag on anyone

"If I practise hard," he murmured, "I shall master it."

Immoral to hurt anybody but himself.

Little things are all big with the past

Lived in thoughts about events rather than in events themselves

Love for open air and facts

Low opinion of human nature

Man abstracted, faintly contemptuous of other forms of life

One's got to draw the line." "Ah!" said Cecilia; "where?"

Pabulum of varying theories of future life

Pass out of the country of the understanding of the young

People do miss things when they are old!

Perversity which she found so conspicuous in her servants

Placed beyond the realms of want, who speculated in ideas

Primeval love of stalking

She struggled loyally with her emotion

Simple unspiritual natures of delighting in the present moment

That other mistress with whom he spent so many evening hours

The Old—for whom life had lost its complications

The sentiment that men call honour is of doubtful value

They'll soon have no ankles to reveal

Thinker meditating upon action

Ungovernable itch to be appreciated

Unless—unless they closed their ears, and eyes, and noses

Wanted to be loved, slowly killing the power of loving

When alive, have been served with careless parsimony

You must not laugh at life—that is blasphemy

"You're worth more," muttered Hilary, "than I can ever give you."

Young—to whom everything seemed simple

THE PATRICIAN /gutenberg/etext01/ptrcn10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

Bertie was standing, more inscrutable and neat than ever, in a perfectly tied cravatte, perfectly cut riding breeches, and boots worn and polished till a sooty glow shone through their natural russet. Not specially dandified in his usual dress, Bertie Caradoc would almost sooner have died than disgrace a horse.

Or was it some glimmering perception of the old Greek saying—'Character is Fate;' some sudden sense of the universal truth that all are in bond to their own natures, and what a man has most desired shall in the end enslave him?

And then, of all the awful feelings man or woman can know, she experienced the worst: She could not cry!

"A man who gives advice," he said at last, "is always something of a fool."

And in queer, cheery-looking apathy—not far removed perhaps from despair—he sat, watching the leaves turn over and fall.

"That's the trouble. He suffers from swollen principles—only wish he could keep them out of his speeches."

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

Asked no better fate than to have every minute occupied

Awe-inspiring thing, the power of scandal

Better, sir, it should run a risk than have no risk to run

Cheery-looking apathy—not far removed perhaps from despair

Contrivances that hold even the best of women together

Could not cry!

Detached, and perhaps sarcastic face

Electors, who, finding uncertainty distasteful

Excellent manners that have no mannerisms

Faculty of not being bored with his own society

Feeling of irritation which so rapidly attacks the old

Few things that matter, but they matter very much

Having that passion for work requiring no initiation

He suffers from swollen principles

Horse could ever so far forget himself in such a place

I won't ever want what you can't give

If only there were no chains, no walls

Impossible to get him to look at things in a complicated way

Insinuations about the private affairs of others

Insolent poise of those who are above doubts and cares

Lest they should lose belief in their own strength

Man who gives advice is a fool

Man who knows his own mind and is contented with that knowledge

Mayn't they love each other, if they want?

Never talked of women, and none talked of women in his presence

Not being a crying woman, she suffered quietly

Not going to cry, she wanted time to get over the feeling

Not necessary to speak in order to sustain a conversation

Not the man to see what was not intended for him

Occasionally employing irony, she detested it in others

Old age was pathetically trying

People who wanted to meddle with everything

Royal Family if they were allowed to marry as they liked?

Scandal.: Simple statements of simple facts

Secrecy is strength

Secret spring of certainty

She experienced the worst: She could not cry!

Solemn delicious creatures, all front and no behind

Speech seemed but desecration

Temperamentally unable to beg anything of anybody

The boy—for what else was thirty to seventy-six?

They forgot everything but happiness

To a woman the preciousness of her reputation was a fiction

To shut one's eyes, and be happy—was it possible!

Touching evidences of man's desire to persist for ever

Trouble of youth lasted on almost to old age

Unbound as yet by the fascination of fame or fees

What a man has most desired shall in the end enslave him?

Withdrawing room

Would almost sooner have died than disgrace a horse

THE BURNING SPEAR /gutenberg/etext01/bsper10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

It was, in fact, that hour of dawn when a shiver goes through the world.

But there are many things we public men would never do if we could see them being done. Fortunately, as a rule we cannot.

I don't want to sacrifice nobody to satisfy my aspirations. Why? Because I've got none. That's priceless. Take the Press, take Parlyment, take Mayors—all mad on aspirations. Now it's Free Trade, now it's Imperialism; now it's Liberty in Europe; now it's Slavery in Ireland; now it's sacrifice of the last man an' the last dollar. You never can tell what aspiration'll get 'em next. And the 'ole point of an aspiration is the sacrifice of someone else.

"All these fellers 'ave got two weaknesses—one's ideas, and the other's their own importance. They've got to be conspicuous, and without ideas they can't, so it's a vicious circle. When I see a man bein' conspicuous, I says to meself: 'Gawd 'elp us, we shall want it!' And sooner or later we always do. I'll tell you what's the curse of the world, sir; it's the gift of expressin' what ain't your real feeling. And—Lord! what a lot of us 'ave got it!"

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

"'adn't an aitch in their eads."

Curious existences sometimes to be met with, in doing no harm

Gift of expressin' what ain't your real feeling

Half-realized insults

Look at the things they say, and at what really is

Looked his fellows in the face without seeing what was in it.

Never ought to take it on 'earsay from the papers

Point of an aspiration is the sacrifice of somone else

Would never do if we could see them being done

FIVE SHORT TALES /gutenberg/etext01/5tale10.txt

The First and Last

A Stoic

The Apple Tree

The Juryman

Indian Summer of a Forsyte

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

We've got to be kind, and help one another, and not expect too much, and not think too much. That's—all!

And he thought 'Young beggar—wish I were his age!' The utter injustice of having an old and helpless body, when your desire for enjoyment was as great as ever! They said a man was as old as he felt! Fools! A man was as old as his legs and arms, and not a day younger.

"I don't believe in believing things because one wants to."

Though she had been told that he was not to come, instinct had kept her there; or the pathetic, aching hope against hope which lovers never part with.

Full of who knows what contempt of age for youth; and youth for age; the old man resenting this young pup's aspiration to his granddaughter; the young man annoyed that this old image had dragged him away before he wished to go.

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

"Are you sure you ought, sir?"—"No, but I'm going to."

Aromatic spirituality

Attacked his fleas—though he was supposed to have none

Awaken in one a desire to get up and leave the room

Be kind, and help one another, and not expect too much

Blessed capacity of living again in the young

But it tired him and he was glad to sit down

But the thistledown was still as death

By the cigars they smoke, and the composers they love

Charm; and the quieter it was, the more he liked it

Contempt of age for youth; and youth for age

Did not mean to try and get out of it by vulgar explanation

Did not want to be told of an infirmity

Dislike of humbug

Don't believe in believing things because one wants to.

Early morning does not mince words

Fatigued by the insensitive, he instinctively avoided fatiguing

Felt nearly young

Forgiven me; but she could never forget

Forsytes always bat

Had learned not to be a philosopher in the bosom of his family

Hard-mouthed women who laid down the law

He could not plead with her; even an old man has his dignity

He had not wavered in the usual assumption of omniscience

He saw himself reflected. An old-looking chap

Health—He did not want it at such cost

How long a starving man could go without losing his self-respect

If only she weren't quite so self-contained

Injustice of having an old and helpless body

Instinctive rejection of all but the essential

Intolerable to be squeezed out slowly, without a say youself

Keep a stiff lip until you crashed, and then go clean!

Life wears you out—wears you out.

Little notion of how to butter her bread

Living on his capital

Longing to escape in generalities beset him.

Love has no age, no limit; and no death

More spiritual enjoyment of his coffee and cigar

No money! What fate could compare with that?

Nothing left to do but enjoy beauty from afar off

"Oh! Isn't money horrible, Guardy?"—"The want of it."

Old men learn to forego their whims

One cannot see the havoc oneself is working

One who has never known a struggle with desperation

One's never had enough

Only Time was good for sorrow

Pathetic, aching hope against hope which lovers never part with

Piety which was just sexual disappointment

Poor old man, let um have his pleasure.

Poor shaky chap. All to pieces at the first shot!

Reward—what you can get for being good

Selfishness of age had not set its proper grip on him

Sense of justice stifled condemnation

Servants knew everything, and suspected the rest

She used to expect me to say it more often than I felt it

'So we go out!' he thought. 'No more beauty! Nothing?'

Sorrowful pleasure

Spirit of the future, with the charm of the unknown

Surprised that he could have had so paltry an idea

Swivel chairs which give one an advantage

That dog was a good dog.

The soundless footsteps on the grass!

There was no one in any sort of authority to notice him

Waves of sweetness and regret flooded his soul.

Weighing you to the ground with care and love

What he wanted, though much, was not quite all that mattered

Whole world was in conspiracy to limit freedom

With the wisdom of a long life old JoIyon did not speak

Wonderful finality about a meal

ESSAYS AND STUDIES:

INN OF TRANQUILITY /gutenberg/etext01/inntr10.txt

Inn of Tranquillity

Magpie over the Hill

Sheep-shearing

Evolution

Riding in the Mist

The Procession

A Christian

Wind in the Rocks

My Distant Relative

The Black Godmother

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

This air so crystal clear, so far above incense and the narcotics of set creeds, and the fevered breath of prayers and protestations.

Those whose temperaments and religions show them all things so plainly that they know they are right and others wrong?

For if they do not find it ridiculous to feel contempt, they are perfectly right to feel contempt, it being natural to them; and you have no business to be sorry for them, for that is, after all, only your euphemism for contempt.

The cause of atrocities is generally the violence of Fear. Panic's at the back of most crimes and follies.

Civilisation, so possessed by a new toy each day that she has no time to master its use—naive creature lost amid her own discoveries!

For there was in his smile the glamour of adventure just for the sake of danger; all that high instinct which takes a man out of his chair to brave what he need not.

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

A little bit of continuity

Above incense and the narcotics of set creeds

Adventure just for the sake of danger

Affairs of the nation moved him so much more strongly than his

And we, too, some day would no longer love

Discovery that we were not yet dead

Dog that swam when it did not bark

Ecstasy of hot recklessness to the clutching of chill fear

Elation of those who set out before the sun has risen

Fear! It's the black godmother of all damnable things

It's the thing comin' on you, and no way out of it

Not one little "I" breathed here, and loved!

O God, what things man sees when he goes out without a gun

Panic's at the back of most crimes and follies,

Passion is atrophied from never having been in use

Perfect marvel of disharmony

Quality of silence

Sorrow don't buy bread

Sorry—euphemism for contempt

Temperaments and religions show them all things so plainly,

To and fro with their usual sad energy

Watching over her with eyes that seemed to see something else

What Earth had been through in her time

You think it's worse, then, than it used to be?

QUALITY /gutenberg/etext01/qualt10.txt

Quality

The Grand Jury

Gone

Threshing

That Old-Time Place

Romance—Three Gleams

Memories

Felicity

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

"Isn't it awfully hard to do, Mr. Gessler?"— And his answer, given with a sudden smile from out of the sardonic redness of his beard: "Id is an Ardt!"

And his working coat so ragged that it would never cling to him but for pure affection. — To watch him even now makes one feel how terrible is that dumb grief which has never learned to moan.

Words—those poor husks of sentiment!

For work in the country does not wait on illness—even death claims from its onlookers but a few hours, birth none at all, and it is as well; for what must be must, and in work alone man rests from grief.

A private grudge against Time and a personal pleasure in finishing this job.

Full day has come again. But the face of it is a little strange, it is not like yesterday. Queer—to think, no day is like to a day that's past and no night like a night that's coming! Why, then, fear death, which is but night? Why care, if next day have different face and spirit?

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

Blindfolded by its own history

Comfortable reassurance that one was still his client

Dumb grief which has never learned to moan

Gilt-edged orthodoxy

Glib assurances that naive souls make so easily to others

He have all the pleasure, I have all the work

He was asleep, for he knew not remorse

In work alone man rests from grief

Kind of sporting energy, a defiant spurt

Meaning what one says, so necessary to keep dogs virtuous

Private grudge against Time

Rhythmic nothingness

Such were only embroideries of Fate

Suddenly he sat down to make sure of his own legs

Unholy interest in thus dealing with the lives of my fellow men

Why, then, fear death, which is but night?

Words—those poor husks of sentiment!

CONCERNING LETTERS /gutenberg/etext01/cnlet10.txt

Concerning Letters

A Novelist's Allegory

Some Platitudes Concerning Drama

Meditation on Finality

Wanted—Schooling

On Our Dislike of Things as They Are

The Windlestraw

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

The dreamer spoke to her: "Who are you, standing there in the darkness with those eyes that I can hardly bear to look at? Who are you?"— And the woman answered: "Friend, I am your Conscience; I am the Truth as best it may be seen by you. I am she whom you exist to serve."

A gleam of light, like a faint moonbeam, stole out into the garden of his despair.

Nothing, however, is more dubious than the way in which these two words "pessimist" and "optimist" are used; for the optimist appears to be he who cannot bear the world as it is, and is forced by his nature to picture it as it ought to be, and the pessimist one who cannot only bear the world as it is, but loves it well enough to draw it faithfully.

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

Conscience; I am the Truth as best it may be seen by you

Garden of his despair

I am myself the Public

Often turned it from a picture into a caricature

"Pessimist" and "optimist"

Told, and therefore must believe

ABOUT CENSORSHIP AND VAGUE THOUGHTS ON ART /gutenberg/etext01/cnart10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

And I agree that this rhythmic relation of part to part, and part to whole—in short, vitality—is the one quality inseparable from a work of Art. For nothing which does not seem to a man possessed of this rhythmic vitality, can ever steal him out of himself.

The active amusements and relaxations of life can only rest certain of our faculties, by indulging others; the whole self is never rested save through that unconsciousness of self, which comes through rapt contemplation of Nature or of Art.

And, here and there, amid the disasters and wreckage of their voyages of discovery, they will find something new, some fresh way of embellishing life, or of revealing the heart of things.

Beauty! An awkward word—a perpetual begging of the question; too current in use, too ambiguous altogether; now too narrow, now too wide—a word, in fact, too glib to know at all what it means.

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

An age must always decry itself and extol its forbears

Art is greater than Life

Art that does not distract them without causing them to think

Beauty! An awkward word—a perpetual begging of the question

Certainty

Death may be the end of man, or Death may be nothing

Everything is worth the doing well

Freedom from the dull tedium of responsibility

Introspection causes discomfort

It is not my profession to know things for certain

Itch to get outside ourselves

Know things for certain

Lost all the good of the old, and given us nothing in its place

Replaces within me interest in myself by interest in itself

Rhythmic relation of part to part, and part to whole,

Spurious glamour is inclined to gather around what is new

Superlative, instead of a comparative, clarity of vision

Those whose sacred suns and moons are ever in the past

Time is essential to the proper placing and estimate of all Art

Tomorrow only can tell us which is which

Truth admits but the one rule: No deficiency, and no excess

Turgenev a realist? No greater poet ever wrote in prose

Unconsciousness of self

Vitality—the one quality inseparable from a work of Art

When a thing is new how shall it be judged?

PLAYS: FIRST SERIES:

THE SILVER BOX /gutenberg/etext01/silbx10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

I've no patience with your talk of reform—all that nonsense about social policy. We know perfectly well what it is they want; they want things for themselves. Those Socialists and Labour men are an absolutely selfish set of people. They have no sense of patriotism, like the upper classes; they simply want what we've got.

I quite agree with what this man says: Education is simply ruining the lower classes. It unsettles them, and that's the worst thing for us all. I see an enormous difference in the manner of servants.

He 's not a bad man really. Sometimes he'll speak quite kind to me, but I've stood so much from him, I don't feel it in me to speak kind back, but just keep myself to myself.

JOY /gutenberg/etext01/gljoy10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

If only I could believe I was necessary to you!

Ah, my dear! We're all the same; we're all as hollow as that tree! When it's ourselves it's always a special case!

Positive cool voice of a young man who knows that he knows everything.

He is perfectly calm.

They must go their own ways, poor things! She can't put herself in the child's place, and the child can't put herself in Molly's. A woman and a girl—there's the tree of life between them!

Ashamed? Am I to live all my life like a dead woman because you're ashamed? Am I to live like the dead because you 're a child that knows nothing of life? Listen, Joy, you 'd better understand this once for all. Your Father has no right over me and he knows it. We 've been hateful to each other for years. Can you understand that? Don't cover your face like a child—look at me.

STRIFE /gutenberg/etext01/strif10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

ENID. [In a changed voice, stroking his sleeve.] Father, you know you oughtn't to have this strain on you—you know what Dr. Fisher said! ANTHONY. No old man can afford to listen to old women.

I am not aware that if my adversary suffer in a fair fight not sought by me, it is my fault. If I fall under his feet—as fall I may—I shall not complain. That will be my look-out—and this is—his. I cannot separate, as I would, these men from their women and children. A fair fight is a fair fight! Let them learn to think before they pick a quarrel!

These are the words of my own son. They are the words of a generation that I don't understand; the words of a soft breed.

It seems the fashion nowadays for men to take their enemy's side. I have not learnt that art.

PLAYS: SECOND SERIES:

THE ELDEST SON /gutenberg/etext01/eldsn10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

….whose choleric autocracy is veiled by a thin urbanity.

But I don't see the use in drawin' hard and fast rules. You only have to break 'em.

Yes, I know. Women always get the worst of these things. That's natural.

Because I'm a rotter in one way, I'm not necessarily a rotter in all.

THE LITTLE DREAM /gutenberg/etext01/ldrem10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

"You have all the world; and I have nothing."—"Except Felsman, and the mountains."—"It is not good to eat only bread."

The life of men in crowds is mine—of lamplight in the streets at dawn.

[Softly] I have a thousand loves, and never one too long.

There is religion so deep that no man knows what it means. There is religion so shallow, you may have it by turning a handle. We have everything.

JUSTICE /gutenberg/etext01/justc10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

According to you, no one would ever prosecute.

"I shouldn't be surprised if he was tempted."—"Life's one long temptation…."

But is a man to be lost because he is bred and born with a weak character? Gentlemen, men like the prisoner are destroyed daily under our law for want of that human insight which sees them as they are, patients, and not criminals. If the prisoner be found guilty, and treated as though he were a criminal type, he will, as all experience shows, in all probability become one.

PLAYS: THIRD SERIES:

THE FUGITIVE /gutenberg/etext01/fugtv10.txt

An upright, well-groomed, grey-moustached, red-faced man of sixty-seven, with a keen eye for molehills, and none at all for mountains.

Blessed be the respectable! May they dream of—me! And blessed be all men of the world! May they perish of a surfeit of—good form!

Besides, I oughtn't to have married if I wasn't going to be happy. You see, I'm not a bit misunderstood or ill-treated. It's only….

Very likely—the first birds do. But if she drops half-way it's better than if she'd never flown. Your sister, sir, is trying the wings of her spirit, out of the old slave market. For women as for men, there's more than one kind of dishonour, Captain Huntingdon, and worse things than being dead.

Do you know, Clare, I think it's awful about you! You're too fine, and not fine enough, to put up with things; you're too sensitive to take help, and you're not strong enough to do without it. It's simply tragic.

I've often noticed parsons' daughters grow up queer. Get too much morality and rice puddin'.

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

>From exchanging ideas to something else, isn't very far

It isn't to be manufactured, is it?

Keen eye for molehills, and none at all for mountains

Love liberty in those who don't belong to us

Made up my mind to go back to my owner

May they perish of a surfeit of—good form!

Never apologize

Out of the old slave market

Thorough-bred mongrel

Too fine, and not fine enough

THE PIGEON /gutenberg/etext01/pigon10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

Monsieur, you have there the greatest comedy of life! How anxious are the tame birds to do the wild birds good. [His voice changes.] For the wild birds it is not funny. There is in some human souls, Monsieur, what cannot be made tame.

If she is dead! What fortune!

I am not good for her—it is not good for simple souls to be with those who see things clear. For the great part of mankind, to see anything—is fatal.

To be so near to death has done me good; I shall not lack courage any more till the wind blows on my grave.

We wild ones—we know a thousand times more of life than ever will those sirs. They waste their time trying to make rooks white. Be kind to us if you will, or let us alone like Mees Ann, but do not try to change our skins.

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

Drink certainly changing thine to mine

How anxious are the tame birds to do the wild birds good

If she is dead! What fortune!

La mort—le grand ami

Not good for simple souls to be with those who see things clear

Nothing that gives more courage than to see the irony

Quiet delight of an English artist actually understood

Tame birds pluck wild birds naked

Waste their time trying to make rooks white

We all have our discrepancies, Vicar

When all is done, there are always us hopeless ones

Without that, Monsieur, all is dry as a parched skin of orange

THE MOB /gutenberg/etext01/glmob10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

"There are very excellent reasons for the Government's policy."—"There are always excellent reasons for having your way with the weak."

"Nations can't let each other alone."—"Big ones could let little ones alone."—"If they could there'd be no big ones."

Half-shy, half-bold manners, alternately rude and over polite.

Is a man only to hold beliefs when they're popular?

Mob is just conglomerate essence of simple men.

My country, right or wrong! Guilty—still my country!

LINES FROM THE TEXT:

Conglomerate excrescence

Contradictious eyebrows

If they could there'd be no big ones

Law that governs the action of all mobs—the law of Force

Let no man stand to his guns in face of popular attack

Nations are bad judges of their honour

People so wide apart don't love

Popular opinion is to control the utterances of her politicians

To fight to a finish; knowing you must be beaten

We must show Impudence at last that Dignity is not asleep

PLAYS: FOURTH SERIES:

A BIT O' LOVE /gutenberg/etext01/bolov10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

But 'tes no yuse espectin' tu much o' this world. 'Tes a funny place.

I never thought to luse 'er. She never told me 'ow bad she was, afore she tuk to 'er bed. 'Tis a dreadful thing to luse a wife, zurr.

A faint smile hovers about his lips that Nature has made rather full and he has made thin, as though keeping a hard secret; but his bright grey eyes, dark round the rim, look out and upwards almost as if he were being crucified. There is something about the whole of him that makes him seen not quite present. A gentle creature, burnt within.

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. We have to love because we love loving.

THE FOUNDATIONS /gutenberg/etext01/fndat10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

You send 'er the ten bob a week wivaht syin' anyfink, an' she'll fink it comes from Gawd or the Gover'ment yer cawn't tell one from t'other in Befnal Green.

"She's awfully virtuous, though, isn't she?"—"'Tisn't so much the bein' virtuous, as the lookin' it, that's awful."

THE PRESS shakes his head. Still—it's an easy life! I've regretted sometimes that I didn't have a shot at it myself; influencin' other people without disclosin' your identity—something very attractive about that.

If I'd bin Prime Minister I'd 'ave 'ad the Press's gas cut 'orf at the meter. Puffect liberty, of course, nao Censorship; just sy wot yer like- -an' never be 'eard of no more.

THE SKIN GAME /gutenberg/etext01/skgam10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

It takes generations to learn to live and let live.

My dear, I always let people have the last word. It makes them—feel funny.

When we began this fight, we had clean hands—are they clean now? What's gentility worth if it can't stand fire?

When I deceived him, I'd have deceived God Himself—I was so desperate. You've never been right down in the mud. You can't understand what I've been through.

Ye talk about good form and all that sort o' thing. It's just the comfortable doctrine of the man in the saddle; sentimental varnish.

SIX SHORT PLAYS:

THE FIRST AND THE LAST /gutenberg/etext01/flast10.txt

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT:

Perhaps he was hungry. I have been hungry: you do things then that you would not.

Millions suffer for no mortal reason.

Poor child! When we die, Wanda, let's go together. We should keep each other warm out in the dark.

I tell you she's devoted. Did you ever pick up a lost dog? Well, she has the lost dog's love for me. And I for her; we picked each other up.

We shall be free in the dark; free of their cursed inhumanities. I hate this world—I loathe it! I hate its God-forsaken savagery; its pride and smugness! Keith's world—all righteous will-power and success.

THE LITTLE MAN /gutenberg/etext01/ltman10.txt

We allow more freedom to the individual soul. Where there's something little and weak, we feel it kind of noble to give up to it. That way we feel elevated.

I judge a hero is just a person that'll help another at the expense of himself.

I guess you've got to pinch those waiters some to make 'em skip.

I guess you don't know how good you are.

You are typical, sir, of the sentiments of modern Christianity.

FOUR OF THE SIX SHORT PLAYS /gutenberg/etext01/shply10.txt

Hall-Marked

Defeat

The Sun

Punch and Go

PASSAGES FROM THE TEXTS:

Why don't we live, instead of writing of it? [She points out unto the moonlight] What do we get out of life? Money, fame, fashion, talk, learning? Yes. And what good are they? I want to live!

I don't hate even the English—I despise them. I despise my people too; even more, because they began this war. Oh! I know that. I despise all the peoples. Why haf they made the world so miserable—why haf they killed all our lives—hundreds and thousands and millions of lives—all for noting?

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Quotations from the Project Gutenberg Editions of the Works of John Galsworthy, by John Galsworthy and David Widger

QUOTATIONS FROM THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EDITION OF THE WORKS OF JOHN GALSWORTHY

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