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.
Quotes by E.M. Forster
"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 . . .
Riposte of "that old lady in the anecdote who was accused by her nieces of being illogical," Logic! Good gracious! What rubbish! How can I tell what I think till I see what I say?
How do I know what I think until I see what I say?
I have only got down on to paper, really, three types of people: the person I think I am, the people who irritate me, and the people I'd like to be.
Railway termini . . . are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them, alas! we return.

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