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GEGeorge Eliot

George Eliot

Life dates: 1819 AD — 1880 AD

English novelist whose fiction asks readers to examine motives, sympathy and the effects of a judgment. Literary speakers and historical anthology attributions remain distinct.

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Life and writing

George Eliot was the pen name of Mary Ann Evans, the novelist identified by the National Portrait Gallery as living from 1819 to 1880. The gallery lists Middlemarch among her novels and describes its attention to social structures and personal disappointment. A profile gives this existing archive identity a grounded reading context; it does not turn the name attached to each anthology or contributor record into an independent authentication of that quotation.

In chapter LXXII of the linked Middlemarch, Dorothea responds to damaging talk about Lydgate by asking what people live for if not to ease one another’s difficulty. The question is spoken in a scene with other viewpoints, not presented as a detached command from the novelist. Read the neighbouring exchanges to see how sympathy competes with suspicion and caution. This checked comparison connects one retained anthology passage to related reading without claiming that the anthology used the same Caldwell printing.

Reading this voice

Begin with chapter LXXII and the surrounding discussion of Lydgate. The selected historical anthology entries preserve their printed signatures and independent references; the second concerns sympathy without an established location in this linked novel. There are 304 associated records, including 295 contributor entries that remain independently unverified. Profile lifetime dates are not composition dates or a change to the archive’s existing historical coordinates.

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Quotations and sayings

03c. 1849 AD
I told you from the beginning—as soon as I could—I told you I was afraid of myself." There was a piteous pleading in the low murmur in which Deronda turned his ear only. Her face afflicted him too much. "I felt a hatred in me that was always working like an evil spirit—contriving things. Everything I could do to free myself came into my mind; and it got worse—all things got worse. That is why I asked you to come to me in town. I thought then I would tell you the worst about myself. I tried. But I could not tell everything.
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07c. 1849 AD
When a man is happy enough to win the affections of a sweet girl, who can soothe his cares with crochet, and respond to all his most cherished ideas with beaded urn-rugs and chair-covers in German wool, he has, at least, a guarantee of domestic comfort, whatever trials may await him out of doors. What a resource it is under fatigue and irritation to have your drawing-room well supplied with small mats, which would always be ready if you ever wanted to set anything on them ! And what styptic for a bleeding heart can equal copious squares of crochet, which are useful for slipping down the moment you touch them ? How our fathers managed without crochet is the wonder; but I believe some small and feeble substitute existed in their time under the name of 'tatting'.
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09c. 1849 AD
For in the multitude of middle-aged men who go about their vocations in a daily course determined for them much in the same way as the tie of their cravats, there is always a good number who once meant to shape their own deeds and alter the world a little. The story of their coming to be shapen after the average and fit to be packed by the gross, is hardly ever told even in their consciousness; for perhaps their ardour in generous unpaid toil cooled as imperceptibly as the ardour of other youthful loves, till one day their earlier self walked like a ghost in its old home and made the new furniture ghastly. Nothing in the world more subtle than the process of their gradual change! In the beginning they inhaled it unknowingly: you and I may have sent some of our breath towards infecting them, when we uttered our conforming falsities or drew our silly conclusions: or perhaps it came with the vibrations from a woman's glance.
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11c. 1849 AD
Yes! Thank God; human feeling is like the mighty rivers that bless the earth: it does not wait for beauty—it flows with resistless force and brings beauty with it... There are few prophets in the world; few sublimely beautiful women; few heroes. I can't afford to give all my love and reverence to such rarities: I want a great deal of those feelings for my every-day fellow-men, especially for the few in the foreground of the great multitude, whose faces I know, whose hands I touch, for whom I have to make way with kindly courtesy.
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17c. 1849 AD
You must love your work, and not be always looking over the edge of it, wanting your play to begin. And the other is, you must not be ashamed of your work, and think it would be more honorable to you to be doing something else. You must have a pride in your own work and in learning to do it well, and not be always saying, There’s this and there’s that—if I had this or that to do, I might make something of it. No matter what a man is—I wouldn’t give twopence for him’— here Caleb’s mouth looked bitter, and he snapped his fingers— ‘whether he was the prime minister or the rick-thatcher, if he didn’t do well what he undertook to do.
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18c. 1849 AD
Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love - that makes life and nature harmonise. The birds are consulting about their migrations, the trees are putting on the hectic or the pallid hues of decay, and begin to strew the ground, that one's very footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit. Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive aut
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20c. 1849 AD
There is much pain that is quite noiseless; and vibrations that make human agonies are often a mere whisper in the roar of hurrying existence. There are glances of hatred that stab and raise no cry of murder; robberies that leave man or woman forever beggared of peace and joy, yet kept secret by the sufferer—committed to no sound except that of low moans in the night, seen in no writing except that made on the face by the slow months of suppressed anguish and early morning tears. Many an inherited sorrow that has marred a life has been breathed into no human ear.
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