E.M. Forster

A work of art, we are all agreed, is a unique product. But why? It is unique not because it is clever or noble or beautiful or enlightened or original or sincere or idealistic or useful or educational - it may embody any of those qualities - but because it is the only material object in the universe which may possess internal harmony. All the others have been pressed into shape from outside, and when their mould is removed they collapse. The work of art stands up by itself, and nothing else does. It achieves something which has often been promised by society, but always delusively. It is the one orderly product which our muddling race has produced. It is the cry of a thousand sentinels, the echo from a thousand labyrinths; it is the lighthouse which cannot be hidden.

"It isn't possible to love & part....you can transmutate love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it ouf of you. Love is eternal."

At the side of the everlasting Why, there is a yes!  And a yes!  And a yes!

She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her.

. . . life is sometimes life and sometimes only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish t'other from which . . .

Only connect!

I distrust Great Men. They produce a desert of uniformity around them and often a pool of blood too, and I always feel a little man's pleasure when they come a cropper.

Happiness in the ordinary sense is not what one needs in life, though one is right to aim at it. The true satisfaction is to come through, and see those whom one lives come through.

Ideas are fatal to caste.

One always tends to overpraise a long book, because one has got through it.