A womans heart must be of such a size and no larger, else it must be pressed small, like Chinese feet her happiness is to be made as cakes are, by a fixed recipe. – George Eliot
Death is the king of this world: Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet. – George Eliot
It is in these acts called trivialities that the seeds of joy are forever wasted, until men and women look round with haggard faces at the devastation their own waste has made, and say, the earth bears no harvest of sweetness — calling their denial knowledge. – George Eliot
It will never rain roses: when we want to have more roses we must plant more trees. – George Eliot