The Lifted Veil

by George Eliot

Darkness—darkness—no pain—nothing but darkness: but I am passing on and on through the darkness: my thought stays in the darkness, but always with a sense of moving onward . . .

I have never been encouraged to trust much in the sympathy of my fellow-men.

While the heart beats, bruise it—it is your only opportunity;

a city under the broad sunshine, that seemed to me as if it were the summer sunshine of a long-past century arrested in its course—unrefreshed

the triumph comes suddenly, and we shudder at it, because it is held out by the chill hand of death.

is a dreary thing onto live on doing the same things year after year, without knowing why we do them.

horror was my familiar, and