George Meredith Quotes (1828-1909)

“Open hither, open hence, Scarce a bramble weaves a fence, Where the strawberry runs red, With white star-flower overhead;”

“She had the mouth that smiles in repose. The lips met full on the centre of the bow and thinned along to a lifting dimple.”

“Ravaged cities rolling smoke Thick on cornfields dry and black, Wave his banners, bear his yoke. Track the lightning, and you track Attila. They moan: ’tis he! Bleed: ’tis he! Beneath his foot Leagues are deserts charred and mute; Where he passed, there passed a sea.   Attila, my Attila!”

“We who have seen Italia in the throes, Half risen but to be hurled to ground, and now, Like a ripe field of wheat where once drove plough, All bounteous as she is fair, we think of those Who blew the breath of life into her frame: Cavour, Mazzini, Garibaldi: Three: Her Brain, her Soul, her Sword; and set her free ruinous discords, with one lustrous aim.”

“We who have seen Italia in the throes, Half risen but to be hurled to ground, and now, Like a ripe field of wheat where once drove plough, All bounteous as she is fair, we think of those Who blew the breath of life into her frame: Cavour, Mazzini, Garibaldi: Three: Her Brain, her Soul, her Sword; and set her free ruinous discords, with one lustrous aim.”

“We who have seen Italia in the throes, Half risen but to be hurled to ground, and now, Like a ripe field of wheat where once drove plough, All bounteous as she is fair, we think of those Who blew the breath of life into her frame: Cavour, Mazzini, Garibaldi: Three: Her Brain, her Soul, her Sword; and set her free ruinous discords, with one lustrous aim.”

“We who have seen Italia in the throes, Half risen but to be hurled to ground, and now, Like a ripe field of wheat where once drove plough, All bounteous as she is fair, we think of those Who blew the breath of life into her frame: Cavour, Mazzini, Garibaldi: Three: Her Brain, her Soul, her Sword; and set her free ruinous discords, with one lustrous aim.”

“Carlyle was one who stood constantly in the presence of those ‘Eternal verities’ of which he speaks... The spirit of the prophet was in him... He was the greatest of the Britons of his time—and after the British fashion of not coming near perfection: Titanic, not Olympian: a heaver of rocks, not a shaper. But if he did no perfect work, he had lightning's power to strike out marvelous pictures and reach to the inmost of men with a phrase.”

“... Other writers may draw more recognisable scenes; Meredith contrives to place us in company which, in spite of seeming at times like a mad dream, never allows us to question that something living and genuine is going forward.”