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She Carried Within Herself A Great Fund Of Life, And Her Deepest Enjoyment Was To Feel The Continuity Between The Movement Of Her Own Heart And The Agitations Of The World. For This Reason, She Was Fond Of Seeing Great Crowds, And Large Stretches Of Country, Of Reading About Revolutions And Wars, Of Looking At Historical Pictures--a Class Of Efforts To Which She Had Often Gone So Far As To Forgive Much Bad Painting For The Sake Of The Subject.

-Henry James

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She Carried Within Herself

Henry James

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She Carried Within Herself A Great Fund Of Life, And Her Deepest Enjoyment Was To Feel The Continuity Between The Movement Of Her Own Heart And The Agitations Of The World. For This Reason, She Was Fond Of Seeing Great Crowds, And Large Stretches Of Country, Of Reading About Revolutions And Wars, Of Looking At Historical Pictures--a Class Of Efforts To Which She Had Often Gone So Far As To Forgive Much Bad Painting For The Sake Of The Subject.

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London Is On The Whole The Most Possible Form Of Life.

[thomas Henry] Huxley Is A Very Genial, Comfortable Being-yet With None Of The Noisy And Windy Geniality Of Some Folks Here, Whom You Find With Their Backs Turned When You Are Responding To The Remarks That They Have Made You.

Life Is, In Fact, A Battle. Evil Is Insolent And Strong; Beauty Enchanting, But Rare; Goodness Very Apt To Be Weak; Folly Very Apt To Be Defiant; Wickedness To Carry The Day; Imbeciles To Be In Great Places, People Of Sense In Small, And Mankind Generally Unhappy. But The World As It Stands Is No Narrow Illusion, No Phantasm, No Evil Dream Of The Night; We Wake Up To It, Forever And Ever; And We Can Neither Forget It Nor Deny It Nor Dispense With It.

It Is, I Think, An Indisputable Fact That Americans Are, As Americans, The Most Self-conscious People In The World, And The Most Addicted To The Belief That The Other Nations Of The Earth Are In A Conspiracy To Under Value Them.

If One Is Strong, One Loves The More Strongly.

What Is Character But The Determination Of Incident? What Is Incident But The Illustration Of Character?

To Criticize Is To Appreciate, To Appropriate, To Take Intellectual Possession, To Establish In Fine A Relation With The Criticized Thing And To Make It One's Own.

The Visible World Is But Man Turned Inside Out That He May Be Revealed To Himself.

All Intimacies Are Based On Differences.

Every Governmental Institution Has Been A Standing Testimony To The Harmonic Destiny Of Society, A Standing Proof That The Life Of Man Is Destined For Peace And Amity, Instead Of Disorder And Contention.

I Take Up My Own Pen Again - The Pen Of All My Old Unforgettable Efforts And Sacred Struggles. To Myself - Today - I Need Say No More. Large And Full And High The Future Still Opens. It Is Now Indeed That I May Do The Work Of My Life. And I Will.

Women Never Dine Alone. When They Dine Alone They Don't Dine.

It Is Indeed Immensely Picturesque. I Can Fancy Sitting All A Summer's Day Watching Its Shadows Shorten And Lengthen Again, And Drawing A Delicious Contrast Between The World's Duration And The Feeble Span Of Individual Experience. There Is Something In Stonehenge Almost Reassuring; And If You Are Disposed To Feel That Life Is Rather A Superficial Matter, And That We Soon Get To The Bottom Of Things, The Immemorial Gray Pillars May Serve To Remind You Of The Enormous Background Of Time.

I Am Incapable Of Telling You Not To Feel. Feel, Feel, I Say - Feel For All You're Worth, And Even If It Half Kills You, For That Is The Only Way To Live.

Ideas Are, In Truth, Forces. Infinite, Too, Is The Power Of Personality. A Union Of The Two Always Makes History.

Sorrow Comes In Great Waves...but Rolls Over Us, And Though It May Almost Smother Us, It Leaves Us. And We Know That If It Is Strong, We Are Stronger, Inasmuch As It Passes And We Remain.

Young Men Of This Class Never Do Anything For Themselves That They Can Get Other People To Do For Them, And It Is The Infatuation, The Devotion, The Superstition Of Others That Keeps Them Going. These Others In Ninety-nine Cases Out Of A Hundred Are Women.

His Kiss Was Like White Lightning, A Flash That Spread, And Spread Again, And Stayed.

It Had Been Agreed Between Them That Lighted Candles At Wayside Inns, In Strange Countries Amid Mountain Scenery, Gave The Evening Meal A Peculiar Poetry.

I Would Give All I Possess To Get Out Of Myself; But Somehow, At The End, I Find Myself So Vastly More Interesting Than Nine Tenths Of The People I Meet.

The Main Object Of The Novel Is To Represent Life. . .the Success Of A Work Of Art, To My Mind, May Be Measured By The Degree To Which It Produces A Certain Illusion; That Illusion Makes It Appear To Us For The Time That We Have Lived Another Life - That We Have Had A Miraculous Enlargement Of Experience.

He Valued Life And Literature Equally For The Light They Threw Upon Each Other; To His Mind One Implied The Other; He Was Unable To Conceive Of Them Apart.

A Solitary Maple On A Woodside Flames In Single Scarlet, Recalls Nothing So Much As The Daughter Of A Noble House Dressed For A Fancy Ball, With The Whole Family Gathered Around To Admire Her Before She Goes.

Love Has Nothing To Do With Good Reasons.

Art Without Life Is A Poor Affair.

Writing Is Not Primarily Escape, But Use.

...the Great Merit Of The Place Is That One Can Arrange One's Life Here Exactly As One Pleases...there Are Facilities For Every Kind Of Habit And Taste, And Everything Is Accepted And Understood.

Don't Pass It By - The Immediate, The Real, The Ours, The Yours, The Novelist's That It Waits For.

We Are Divided Of Course Between Liking To Feel The Past Strange And Liking To Feel It Familiar.

Always Keep A Window In The Attic Open; Not Just Cracked: Open.

Art Requires, Above All Things, A Suppression Of Self, A Subordination Of One's Self To An Idea.

Novelist-citizen Of Two Countries Interpreter Of His Generation On Both Sides Of The Sea.

God's Creature Is One. He Makes Man, Not Men. His True Creature Is Unitary And Infinite, Revealing Himself, Indeed, In Every Finite Form, But Compromised By None.

Under Certain Circumstances There Are Few Hours In Life More Agreeable Than The Hour Dedicated To The Ceremony Known As Afternoon Tea.

You Are Good For Nothing Unless You Are Clever.

The Story Had Held Us, Round The Fire, Sufficiently Breathless, But Except The Obvious Remark That It Was Gruesome, As, On Christmas Eve In An Old House, A Strange Tale Should Essentially Be . . .

I've Struck Up A Tremendous Intimacy With Conte Alberto, And We Literally Can't Live Without Each Other. He Is The First Object My Eyes Greet In The Morning, And The Last At Night.

Experience Is Never Limited, And It Is Never Complete; It Is An Immense Sensibility, A Kind Of Huge Spider-web Of The Finest Silken Threads Suspended In The Chamber Of Consciousness, And Catching Every Air-borne Particle In Its Tissue.

The Girl Had A Certain Nobleness Of Imagination, Which Rendered Her A Good Many Services And Played Her A Great Many Tricks. She Spent Half Her Time In Thinking Of Beauty, Bravery, Magnanimity; She Had A Fixed Determination To Regard The World As A Place Of Brightness, Of Free Expansion, Of Irresistible Action, She Thought It Would Be Detestable To Be Afraid Or Ashamed. She Had An Infinite Hope That She Would Never Do Anything Wrong. She Had Resented So Strongly, After Discovering Them, Her Mere Errors Of Feeling.

The Effect, If Not The Prime Office, Of Criticism Is To Make Our Absorption And Our Enjoyment Of The Things That Feed The Mind As Aware Of Itself As Possible, Since That Awareness Quickens The Mental Demand, Which Thus In Turn Wanders Further And Further For Pasture. This Action On The Part Of The Mind Practically Amounts To A Reaching Out For The Reasons Of Its Interest, As Only By Its Ascertaining Them Can The Interest Grow More Various. This Is The Very Education Of Our Imaginative Life.

A Swift Carriage, Of A Dark Night, Rattling With Four Horses Over Roads That One Can’t See--that’s My Idea Of Happiness.

My Father Ain't In Europe; My Father's In A Better Place Than Europe." Winterbourne Imagined For A Moment That This Was The Manner In Which The Child Had Been Taught To Intimate That Mr. Miller Had Been Removed To The Sphere Of Celestial Reward. But Randolph Immediately Added, "my Father's In Schenectady.

Live As You Like Best, And Your Character Will Take Care Of Itself. Most Things Are Good For You; The Exceptions Are Very Rare.

A Man Who Pretends To Understand Women Is Bad Manners. For Him To Really To Understand Them Is Bad Morals.

Don't Try So Much To Form Your Character - It's Like Trying To Pull Open A Tight, Tender Young Rose. Live As You Like Best And Your Character Will Take Care Of Itself.

I Adore Adverbs; They Are The Only Qualifications I Really Much Respect.

... Since She Might Not Be Splendid, She Would At Least Be Immaculate.

I Recall This Passage As The Hour Of Its First Fully Coming Over Me That She Was A Beautiful Liberal Creature. I Had Seen Her Personality In Glimpses And Gleams, Like A Song Sung In Snatches, But Now It Was Before Me In A Large Rosy Glow, As If It Had Been A Full Volume Of Sound. I Heard The Whole Of The Air, And It Was Sweet Fresh Music, Which I Was Often To Hum Over.(sir Edmund Orme)

What Is Either A Picture Or A Novel That Is Not Character?

No, No—there Are Depths, Depths! The More I Go Over It, The More I See In It, And The More I See In It, The More I Fear. I Don’t Know What I Don’t See—what I Don’t Fear!

Art Is A Point Of View, And A Genius Way Of Looking At Things.

You Think Too Much.' 'i Suppose I Do; But I Can’t Help It, My Mind Is So Terribly Active. When I Give Myself, I Give Myself. I Pay The Penalty In My Headaches, My Famous Headaches--a Perfect Circlet Of Pain! But I Carry It As A Queen Carries Her Crown.

She Was A Woman Who, Between Courses, Could Be Graceful With Her Elbows On The Table.

I Don't Want Everyone To Like Me; I Should Think Less Of Myself If Some People Did.

I Have In My Own Fashion Learned The Lesson That Life Is Effort, Unremittingly Repeated.

The House Of Fiction Has In Short Not One Window, But A Million, ... But They Are, Singly, As Nothing Without The Posted Presence Of The Watcher.

It Takes An Endless Amount Of History To Make Even A Little Tradition.

If The Artist Is Necessarily Sensitive, Does That Sensitiveness Form In Its Essence A State Constantly Liable To Shade Off Into The Morbid? Does This Liability, Moreover, Increase In Proportion As The Effort Is Great And The Ambition Intense?

..her Smile, Which Was Her Pretty Feature, Was Never So Pretty As When Her Sprightly Phrase Had A Scratch Lurking In It.

If You Are Going To Be Pushed You Had Better Jump

And Remember This, That If You've Been Hated, You've Also Been Loved.

I Mean That Everything This Afternoon Has Been Too Beautiful, And That Perhaps Everything Together Will Never Be So Right Again. I'm Very Glad Therefore You've Been A Part Of It.

Do You Think It Is Better To Be Clever Than To Be Good?” “good For What?” Asked The Doctor. “you Are Good For Nothing Unless You Are Clever.

You Wanted To Look At Life For Yourself - But You Were Not Allowed; You Were Punished For Your Wish. You Were Ground In The Very Mill Of The Conventional.

Life Is A Predicament Which Precedes Death.

No Sovereign, No Court, No Personal Loyalty, No Aristocracy, No Church, No Clergy, No Army, No Diplomatic Service, No Country Gentlemen, No Palaces, No Castles, Nor Manors, Nor Old Country-houses, Nor Parsonages, Nor Thatched Cottages Nor Ivied Ruins No Cathedrals, Nor Abbeys, Nor Little Norman Churches No Great Universities Nor Public Schools -- No Oxford, Nor Eton, Nor Harrow No Literature, No Novels, No Museums, No Pictures, No Political Society, No Sporting Class -- No Epsom Nor Ascot Some Such List As That Might Be Drawn Up Of The Absent Things In American Life.

It's Time To Start Living The Life You've Imagined.

If I Were To Live My Life Over Again, I Would Be An American. I Would Steep Myself In America, I Would Know No Other Land.

Until You Try, You Don't Know What You Can't Do.

I Have Only To Let Myself Go! So I Have Said All My Life, Yet I Have Never Fully Done It.

I Intend To Judge Things For Myself; To Judge Wrongly, I Think, Is More Honorable Than Not To Judge At All.

Her Chief Dread In Life, At This Period Of Her Development, Was That She Would Appear Narrow Minded; What She Feared Next Afterwards Was That She Should Be So.

The Time-honored Bread-sauce Of The Happy Ending.

To Live In The World Of Creation-to Get Into It And Stay In It-to Frequent It And Haunt It...to Think Intently And Fruitfully, To Woo Combinations And Inspirations Into Being By A Depth And Continuity Of Attention And Meditation-this Is The Only Thing.

She Had Her Own Way Of Doing All That She Did, And This Is The Simplest Description Of A Character Which, Although By No Means Without Liberal Motions, Rarely Succeeded In Giving An Impression Of Suavity.

I Hate American Simplicity. I Glory In The Piling Up Of Complications Of Every Sort. If I Could Pronounce The Name James In Any Different Or More Elaborate Way I Should Be In Favor Of Doing It.

Money's A Horrid Thing To Follow, But A Charming Thing To Meet.

If This Was Love, Love Had Been Overrated.

The Advantage, The Luxury, As Well As The Torment And Responsibility Of The Novelist, Is That There Is No Limit To What He May Attempt As An Executant - No Limit To His Possible Experiments, Efforts, Discoveries, Successes.

Any Point Of View Is Interesting That Is A Direct Impression Of Life. You Each Have An Impression Colored By Your Individual Conditions; Make That Into A Picture, A Picture Framed By Your Own Personal Wisdom, Your Glimpse Of The American World.

There's No More Usual Basis Of Union Than Mutual Misunderstanding.

I Have Lived Too Long In Foreign Parts

Which Of You With Taking Thought Can Add To His Stature One Cubit?

All Roads Lead To Rome, And There Were Times When It Might Have Struck Us That Almost Every Branch Of Study Or Subject Of Conversation Skirted Forbidden Ground.

I'm Yours For Ever--for Ever And Ever. Here I Stand; I'm As Firm As A Rock. If You'll Only Trust Me, How Little You'll Be Disappointed. Be Mine As I Am Yours.

I Don't Care Anything About Reasons, But I Know What I Like.

He Is Outside Of Everything, And Alien Everywhere. He Is An Aesthetic Solitary. His Beautiful, Light Imagination Is The Wing That On The Autumn Evening Just Brushes The Dusky Window.

He Was There Or Was Not There: Not There If I Didn't See Him.

To Believe In A Child Is To Believe In The Future. Through Their Aspirations They Will Save The World. With Their Combined Knowledge The Turbulent Seas Of Hate And Injustice Will Be Calmed.

One Doesn't Defend One's God: One's God Is In Himself A Defense.

He Is The Same Old Sausage, Fizzing And Sputtering In His Own Grease.

When I Am Wicked I Am In High Spirits.

Though There Are Some Disagreeable Things In Venice There Is Nothing So Disagreeable As The Visitors.

Innocent And Infinite Are The Pleasures Of Observation.

We Must For Dear Life Make Our Own Counter-realities.

I Know Of No Substitute Whatever For The Force And Beauty Of An Artistic Process.

Sometimes She Went So Far As To Wish That She Should Find Herself In A Difficult Position, So That She Might Have The Pleasure Of Being As Heroic As The Occasion Demanded.

Her Memory's Your Love. You Want No Other.

Try To Be One Of The People On Whom Nothing Is Lost!

Art Derives A Considerable Part Of Its Beneficial Exercise From Flying In The Face Of Presumptions.

Live All You Can; It's A Mistake Not To.

Inspirational Life

We Trust To Novels To Train Us In The Practice Of Great Indignations And Great Generosity.

Three Things In Human Life Are Important. The First Is To Be Kind. The Second Is To Be Kind. And The Third Is To Be Kind.

In A Play, Certainly, The Subject Is Of More Importance Than In Any Other Work Of Art. Infelicity, Triviality, Vagueness Of Subject, May Be Outweighed In A Poem, A Novel, Or A Picture, By Charm Of Manner, By Ingenuity Of Execution; But In A Drama The Subject Is Of The Essence Of The Work-it Is The Work. If It Is Feeble, The Work Can Have No Force; If It Is Shapeless, The Work Must Be Amorphous.

To Live Only To Suffer—only To Feel The Injury Of Life Repeated And Enlarged—it Seemed To Her She Was Too Valuable, Too Capable, For That. Then She Wondered If It Were Vain And Stupid To Think So Well Of Herself. When Had It Even Been A Guarantee To Be Valuable? Wasn't All History Full Of The Destruction Of Precious Things? Wasn't It Much More Probable That If One Were Fine One Would Suffer?

I Could Come Back To America..to Die..but Never, Never To Live.

The Artist Beholds In Nature More Than She Herself Nature Is Conscious Of.

I've Always Expected The Worst, And It's Always Worse Than I Expected.

The Girl Had A Certain Nobleness Of Imagination, Which Rendered Her A Good Many Services And Played Her A Great Many Tricks.

It Is Art That Makes Life, Makes Interest, Makes Importance.

Every Good Story Is Of Course Both A Picture And An Idea, And The More They Are Interfused The Better.

Art Does Not Lie In Copying Nature.- Nature Furnishes The Material By Means Of Which Is To Express A Beauty Still Unexpressed In Nature.-the Artist Beholds In Nature More Than She Herself Is Conscious Of.

We Work In The Dark - We Do What We Can - We Give What We Have. Our Doubt Is Our Passion, And Our Passion Is Our Task. The Rest Is The Madness Of Art.

The Only Obligation To Which In Advance We May Hold A Novel, Without Incurring The Accusation Of Being Arbitrary, Is That It Be Interesting.

Cats And Monkeys; Monkeys And Cats; All Human Life Is There.

The Superiority Of One Man's Opinion Over Another's Is Never So Great As When The Opinion Is About A Woman.

However British You May Be, I Am More British Still.

I Recall My Fleeting Instants In Savannah As The Taste Of A Cup Charged To The Brim.

To Kill A Human Being Is, After All, The Least Injury You Can Do Him.

We Must Know, As Much As Possible, In Our Beautiful Art...what We Are Talking About And The Only Way To Know Is To Have Lived And Loved And Cursed And Floundered And Enjoyed And Suffered. I Think I Don't Regret A Single "excess" Of My Responsive Youth I Only Regret, In My Chilled Age, Certain Occasions And Possibilities I Didn't Embrace.

Americans Will Eat Garbage Provided You Sprinkle It Liberally With Ketchup.

No Themes Are So Human As Those That Reflect For Us, Out Of The Confusion Of Life, The Close Connection Of Bliss And Bale, Of The Things That Help With The Things That Hurt, So Dangling Before Us Forever That Bright Hard Medal, Of So Strange An Alloy, One Face Of Which Is Somebody's Right And Ease And The Other Somebody's Pain And Wrong.

Her Imagination Was By Habit Ridiculously Active; When The Door Was Not Open It Jumped Out The Window.

To Take What There Is In Life And Use It, Without Waiting Forever In Vain For The Preconceived, To Dig Deep Into The Actual And Get Something Out Of That; This, Doubtless, Is The Right Way To Live.

That Accurst Autobiographic Form Which Puts A Premium On The Loose, The Improvised, The Cheap, And The Easy.

The "germ," Wherever Gathered, Has Ever Been For Me, "the Germ Of A Story," And Most Of The Stories Strained To Shape Under My Hand Have Sprung From A Single Small Seed, A Seed As Remote And Windblown As A Casual Hint.

It's A Complex Fate, Being An American, And One Of The Responsibilities It Entails Is Fighting Against A Superstitious Valuation Of Europe.

The Power To Guess The Unseen From The Seen, To Trace The Implication Of Things, To Judge The Whole Piece By The Pattern, The Condition Of Feeling Life, In General, So Completely That You Are Well On Your Way To Knowing Any Particular Corner Of It-this Cluster Of Gifts May Almost Be Said To Constitute Experience, And They Occur In Country And In Town, And In The Most Differing Stages Of Education.

She Feels In Italics And Thinks In Capitals.

England Always Seems To Me Like A Man Swimming With His Clothes On His Head.

I Don't Care About Anything But You, And That's Enough For The Present. I Want You To Be Happy--not To Think Of Anything Sad; Only To Feel That I'm Near You And I Love You. Why Should There Be Pain? In Such Hours As This What Have We To Do With Pain? That's Not The Deepest Thing; There's Something Deeper.

Things Are Always Different From What They Might Be.

Kidd, Turn Off The Light To Spare My Blushes.

The Deepest Quality Of A Work Of Art Will Always Be The Quality Of The Mind Of The Producer...no Good Novel Will Ever Proceed From A Superficial Mind.

Adjectives Are The Sugar Of Literature And Adverbs The Salt.

Happy You Poets Who Can Be Present And So Present By A Simple Flicker Of Your Genius, And Not, Like The Clumsier Race, Have To Laya Train And Pile Up Faggots That May Not After Prove In The Least Combustible!

We Work In The Dark -- We Do What We Can -- We Give What We Have.

Little By Little, Even With Other Cares, The Slowly But Surely Working Poison Of The Garden-mania Begins To Stir In My Long-sluggish Veins.

I Think I Don't Regret A Single 'excess' Of My Responsive Youth - I Only Regret, In My Chilled Age, Certain Occasions And Possibilities I Didn't Embrace.

It Doesn't So Much Matter What You Do In Particular, So Long As You Have Your Life.

Of Course You're Always At Liberty To Judge The Critic. Judge People As Critics, However, And You'll Condemn Them All!

I Am Blackly Bored When They Are At Large And At Work; But Somehow I Am Still More Blackly Bored When They Are Shut Up In Holloway And We Are Deprived Of Them.

New York Is Appalling, Fantastically Charmless And Elaborately Dire.

If You Haven't Had Your Life What Have You Had?

My Sole Wish Is To Frustrate As Utterly As Possible The Post-mortem Exploiter.

Everything About Florence Seems To Be Colored With A Mild Violet, Like Diluted Wine.

Summer Afternoon, Summer Afternoon; To Me Those Have Always Been The Two Most Beautiful Words In The English Language.

...the Peculiar Air Of Oxford-the Air Of Liberty To Care For The Things Of The Mind Assured And Secured By Machinery Which Is In Itself A Satisfaction To Sense.

The Only Reason For The Existence Of A Novel Is That It Does Attempt To Represent Life.

It Exhibits The Effort Of An Essentially Prosaic Mind To Lift Itself, By A Prolonged Muscular Strain, Into Poetry.

It Takes A Great Deal Of History To Produce A Little Literature.

In Art Economy Is Always Beauty.

Of Course What He Most Intensely Dreams Of Is Being Taken Out On Walks, And The More You Are Able To Indulge Him The More Will He Adore You And The More All The Latent Beauty Of His Nature Will Come Out.

Autobiography May Be The Preeminent Kind Of American Expression.

Am I Solemn? I Had An Idea I Was Grinning From Ear To Ear." "you Look As If You Were Taking Me To A Prayer-meeting Or A Funeral. If That's A Grin Your Ears Are Very Near Together." "should You Like Me To Dance A Hornpipe On The Deck?" "pray Do, And I'll Carry Round Your Hat. It'll Pay The Expenses Of Our Journey.

There Were Always People To Snatch At You, And It Would Never Occur To Them That They Were Eating You Up. They Did That Without Tasting.

The Historian, Essentially, Wants More Documents Than He Can Really Use; The Dramatist Only Wants More Liberties Than He Can Really Take.

There Were Several Ways Of Understanding Her: There Was What She Said, And There Was What She Meant, And There Was Something Between The Two, That Was Neither.

Life Being All Inclusion And Confusion, And Art Being All Discrimination And Selection, The Latter, In Search Of The Hard Latent Value With Which It Alone Is Concerned, Sniffs Round The Mass As Instinctively And Unerringly As A Dog Suspicious Of Some Buried Bone.

Keep Making The Movements Of Life.

Though It Might Have Its Momentary Alarms, Paternity Is Not An Exciting Vocation.

I Don’t Think I Pity Her. She Doesn’t Strike Me As A Girl That Suggests Compassion. I Think I Envy Her... I Don’t Know Whether She Is A Gifted Being, But She Is A Clever Girl, With A Strong Will And A High Temper. She Has No Idea Of Being Bored...very Pretty Indeed; But I Don’t Insist Upon That. It’s Her General Air Of Being Someone In Particular That Strikes Me.

Make Him [the Reader] Think The Evil, Make Him Think It For Himself, And You Are Released From Weak Specifications.

People Talk About The Conscience, But It Seems To Me One Must Just Bring It Up To A Certain Point And Leave It There. You Can Let Your Conscience Alone If You're Nice To The Second Housemaid.

One Of My Latest Sensations Was Going To Lady Airlie's To Hear Browning Read His Own Poems - With The Comport Of Finding That, At Least, If You Don't Understand Them, He Himself Apparently Understands Them Even Less. He Read Them As If He Hated Them And Would Like To Bite Them To Pieces.

The Right Time Is Any Time That One Is Still So Lucky As To Have.

Experience Is Never Limited, And It Is Never Complete

She Carried Within Herself A Great Fund Of Life, And Her Deepest Enjoyment Was To Feel The Continuity Between The Movement Of Her Own Heart And The Agitations Of The World. For This Reason, She Was Fond Of Seeing Great Crowds, And Large Stretches Of Country, Of Reading About Revolutions And Wars, Of Looking At Historical Pictures--a Class Of Efforts To Which She Had Often Gone So Far As To Forgive Much Bad Painting For The Sake Of The Subject.

There Are Women Who Are For All Your 'times Of Life.' They're The Most Wonderful Sort.

Make (the Reader) Think The Evil, Make Him Think It For Himself, And You Are Released From Weak Specifications. My Values Are Positively All Blanks, Save So Far As An Excited Horror, A Promoted Pity, A Created Expertness... Proceed To Read Into Them More Or Less Fantastic Figures.

In The Long Run An Opinion Often Borrows Credit From The Forbearance Of Its Patrons.

One Might Enumerate The Items Of High Civilization, As It Exists In Other Countries, Which Are Absent From The Texture Of American Life, Until It Should Become A Wonder To Know What Was Left.

Criticism Talks A Good Deal Of Nonsense, But Even Its Nonsense Is A Useful Force. It Keeps The Question Of Art Before The World, Insists Upon Its Importance.

It Is Difficult To Speak Adequately Or Justly Of London. It Is Not A Pleasant Place; It Is Not Agreeable, Or Cheerful, Or Easy, Or Exempt From Reproach. It Is Only Magnificent.

Oxford Lends Sweetness To Labour And Dignity To Leisure.

Take The Word For It Of A Man Who Has Made His Way Inch By Inch, And Does Not Believe That We'll Wake Up To Find Our Work Done Because We've Lain All Night A-dreaming Of It; Anything Worth Doing Is Devilish Hard To Do!

The Practice Of "reviewing"... In General Has Nothing In Common With The Art Of Criticism.

The Only Success Worth One's Powder Was Success In The Line Of One's Idiosyncrasy... What Was Talent But The Art Of Being Completely Whatever One Happened To Be?

Congratulations

Be Generous, Be Delicate, And Always Pursue The Prize.

...and The Great Advantage Of Being A Literary Woman, Was That You Could Go Everywhere And Do Everything.

Deep Experience Is Never Peaceful.

To Treat A Big Subject In The Intensely Summarized Fashion Demanded By An Evening's Traffic Of The Stage When The Evening, Freely Clipped At Each End, Is Reduced To Two Hours And A Half, Is A Feat Of Which The Difficulty Looms Large.

To Read Between The Lines Was Easier Than To Follow The Text.

Read Between The Lines

Things Are Always Different Than What They Might Be...if You Wait For Them To Change, You Will Never Do Anything.

Nothing, Of Course, Will Ever Take The Place Of The Good Old Fashion Of 'liking' A Work Of Art Or Not Liking It; The More Improved Criticism Will Not Abolish That Primitive, That Ultimate, Test.

I Think Patriotism Is Like Charity -- It Begins At Home.

I Call People Rich When They're Able To Meet The Requirements Of Their Imagination.

Do Not Mind Anything That Anyone Tells You About Anyone Else. Judge Everyone And Everything For Yourself.

You Must Save What You Can Of Your Life; You Musn't Lose It All Simply Because You've Lost A Part.

If You Have Work To Do, Don't Wait To Feel Like It; Set To Work And You Will Feel Like It.

I Had An Excellent Repast - The Best Repast Possible - Which Consisted Simply Of Boiled Eggs And Bread And Butter. It Was The Quality Of These Simple Ingredients That Made The Occasion Memorable. The Eggs Were So Good That I Am Ashamed To Say How Many Of Them I Consumed ....it Might Seem That An Egg Which Has Succeeded In Being Fresh Has Done All That Can Be Reasonably Expected Of It.

Most English Talk Is A Quadrille In A Sentry-box.

There Are Two Kinds Of Taste, The Taste For Emotions Of Surprise And The Taste For Emotions Of Recognition.

She Had A Certain Way Of Looking At Life Which He Took As A Personal Offense.

I Hold Any Writer Sufficiently Justified Who Is Himself In Love With His Theme.

She Is Like A Revolving Lighthouse; Pitch Darkness Alternating With A Dazzling Brilliancy!

It Might Seem That An Egg Which Has Succeeded In Being Fresh Has Done All That Can Reasonably Be Expected Of It.

She Had Always Been Fond Of History, And Here [in Rome] Was History In The Stones Of The Street And The Atoms Of The Sunshine.

Make The Short Story Tremendously Succinct - With A Very Short Pulse Or Rhythm - And The Closest Selection Of Detail - In Other Words Summarise Intensely And Deeply And Keep Down The Lateral Development. It Should Be A Little Gem Of Bright, Quick, Vivid Form

She Envied Ralph His Dying, For If One Were Thinking Of Rest That Was The Most Perfect Of All. To Cease Utterly, To Give It All Up And Not Know Anything More — This Idea Was As Sweet As The Vision Of A Cool Bath In A Marble Tank, In A Darkened Chamber, In A Hot Land.

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