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  • #1
    George Eliot
    “We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it, if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass, the same hips and haws on the autumn hedgerows, the same redbreasts that we used to call ‘God’s birds’ because they did no harm to the precious crops. What novelty is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known and loved because it is known?”
    George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss

  • #2
    Louisa May Alcott
    “There are some natures too noble to curb and too lofty to bend.”
    Louisa May Alcott

  • #3
    John Steinbeck
    “If a story is not about the hearer he [or she] will not listen . . . A great lasting story is about everyone or it will not last. The strange and foreign is not interesting--only the deeply personal and familiar.”
    John Steinbeck, East of Eden

  • #4
    “The angels will return. And when you see the one that’s meant to help you, you will weep with joy.”
    Twin Peaks

  • #5
    Aristotle
    “Amicus Plato, sed magis amica veritas”
    Aristotle

  • #6
    William Shakespeare
    “To die, - To sleep, - To sleep!
    Perchance to dream: - ay, there's the rub;
    For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
    When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
    Must give us pause: there's the respect
    That makes calamity of so long life;”
    William Shakespeare, Hamlet

  • #7
    “Do not stand at my grave and weep;
    I am not there. I do not sleep.
    I am a thousand winds that blow.
    I am the diamond glints on snow.
    I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
    I am the gentle autumn rain.
    When you awaken in the morning’s hush
    I am the swift uplifting rush
    Of quiet birds in circled flight.
    I am the soft stars that shine at night.
    Do not stand at my grave and cry;
    I am not there. I did not die.”
    Mary Elizabeth Frye

  • #8
    Dylan Thomas
    “Do not go gentle into that good night,
    Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
    Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
    Because their words had forked no lightning they
    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
    Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
    And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
    Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    And you, my father, there on the sad height,
    Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
    Do not go gentle into that good night.
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
    Dylan Thomas, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

  • #9
    Jane Austen
    “I cannot make speeches, Emma...If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me. I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it.”
    Jane Austen, Emma

  • #10
    Virginia Woolf
    “I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.”
    Virginia Woolf, The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Volume One: 1915-1919

  • #11
    John Steinbeck
    “When a child first catches adults out -- when it first walks into his grave little head that adults do not always have divine intelligence, that their judgments are not always wise, their thinking true, their sentences just -- his world falls into panic desolation. The gods are fallen and all safety gone. And there is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter or sink deeply into green muck. It is a tedious job to build them up again; they never quite shine. And the child's world is never quite whole again. It is an aching kind of growing.”
    John Steinbeck, East of Eden



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