Mrs. Miniver Quotes

“Mrs. Miniver suddenly understood why she was enjoying the forties so much better than she had enjoyed the thirties: it was the difference between August and October, between the heaviness of late summer and the sparkle of early autumn, between the ending of an old phase and the beginning of a fresh one.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“...[F]ireworks had for her a direct and magical appeal. Their attraction was more complex than that of any other form of art. They had pattern and sequence, colour and sound, brilliance and mobility; they had suspense, surprise, and a faint hint of danger; above all, they had the supreme quality of transience, which puts the keenest edge on beauty and makes it touch some spring in the heart which more enduring excellences cannot reach.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“It's as important to marry the right life as it is the right person.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“A single person is a manageable entity, whom you can either make friends with or leave alone. But half of a married couple is not exactly a whole human being: if the marriage is successful it is something a little more than that; if unsuccessful, a little less. In either case, a fresh complication is added to the already intricate business of friendship: as Clem had once remarked, you might as well try to dance a tarantella with a Siamese twin.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“...[T]he mechanics of life should never be allowed to interfere with living.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“This was the cream of marriage, this nightly turning out of the day's pocketful of memories, this deft habitual sharing of two pairs of eyes, two pairs of ears. It gave you, in a sense, almost a double life: though never, on the other hand, quite a single one.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“Not that she didn’t enjoy the holidays: but she always felt—and it was, perhaps, the measure of her peculiar happiness—a little relieved when they were over. Her normal life pleased her so well that she was half afraid to step out of its frame in case one day she should find herself unable to get back.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“Left wing...Right wing...it's so limited; why doesn't it ever occur to any of them that what one is really longing for is the wishbone?”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“It oughtn't to need a war to make us talk to each other in buses, and invent our own amusements in the evenings, and live simply, and eat sparingly, and recover the use of our legs, and get up early enough to see the sun rise. However, it has needed one: which is about the severest criticism our civilization could have.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“It was more like a form of claustrophobia -- a dread of exchanging the freedom of her own self-imposed routine for the inescapable burden of somebody else's.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“...[A] certain degree of un-understanding (not mis-, but un-) is the only possible sanctuary which one human being can offer to another in the midst of the devastating intimacy of a happy marriage.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“And it will matter little, in after days, Whether this twig, or that, kindled the blaze.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“She reached her doorstep. The key turned sweetly in the lock. That was the kind of thing one remembered about a house: not the size of the rooms or the color of the walls, but the feel of the door-handles and light-switches, the shape and texture of the banister-rail under one's palm; minute tactual intimacies, whose resumption was the essence of coming home.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“Clem caught her eye across the table. It seemed to her sometimes that the most important thing about marriage was not a home or children or a remedy against sin, but simply there being always an eye to catch.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“Clem Miniver: She was a good cook, as good cooks go. And as good cooks go, she went.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“[M]rs. Miniver was beginning to feel more than a little weary of exchanging ideas (especially political ones) and of hearing other people exchange theirs. It's all very well, she reflected, when the ideas have had time to flower, or at least to bud, so that we can pick them judiciously, present them with a bow, and watch them unfold in the warmth of each other's understanding: but there is far too much nowadays of pulling up the wretched little things just to see how they are growing. Half the verbal sprigs we hand each other are nothing but up-ended rootlets, earthy and immature: left longer in the ground they might have come to something, but once they are exposed we seldom manage to replant them. It is largely the fault, no doubt, of the times we live in. Things happen too quickly, crisis follows crisis, the soil of our minds is perpetually disturbed. Each of us, to relieve his feels, broadcasts his own running commentary on the preposterous and bewildering events of the hour: and this, nowadays, is what passes for conversation.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“Thank God for colonels, thought Mrs. Miniver; sweet creatures, so easily entertained, so biddably diverted from senseless controversy into comfortable monologue: there was nothing in the world so restful as a really good English colonel.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“Words were the only net to catch a mood, the only sure weapon against oblivion.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“A week was what she wanted: a nice manageable chunk of time with a beginning, a middle, and an end, containing, if desired, a space for each of the wonders of the world, the champions of Christendom, the deadly sins, or the colours of the rainbow. (Monday was definitely yellow, Thursday a dull indigo, Friday violet. About the others she didn't feel so strongly.)”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“Mrs. Miniver put the last sheet back on top of the others and clipped them all together again. No, she could not possibly throw them away: they contained too much of her life. Besides, however clear one’s memories seemed to be, it did one no harm to polish them up from time to time. One is what one remembers: no more, no less.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“Hansi, after a day or two’s distant politeness, had taken her by the hand and led her to a row of curiously-shaped pebbles in a secret hiding-place between the wood-stacks. “Meine Sammlung,” he said briefly. “My election,” echoed Toby’s voice in her memory. Her heart turned over: how could there be this ridiculous talk of war, when little boys in all countries collected stones, dodged cleaning their teeth, and hated cauliflower?”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“That would be no less shrewd: for when you first come home from a strange place you are always something of a ghost. They were sorry when you went away, and they welcome you back with affection: but in the meanwhile they have adjusted their lives a little to your absence.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“The eldest girl, almost always, was lugging a dilapidated push-chair with an indeterminate baby in it; and sometimes an ex-baby as well, jammy-mouthed and lolling over the edge. These were the other children. With any luck, if there was a war before they grew up, they would one day see cows, and running streams, and growing corn. But not otherwise. Unless, of course, a miracle happened; unless the structure could be changed without altering the texture, and the people of England, even after the necessity for it had been averted, remembered how to tie a reef-knot.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“Mrs. Miniver made a bee-line for the fireplace, knelt down and wiggled gently. Her heart was thumping: she knew now what burglars must go through. The tile came out quite easily: the hole was still there, but the farthing was gone. She slipped the tile back, stood up, and managed to get her knees dusted just before the landlady reached the top of the stairs. Afterwards, walking down the steep street towards the beach, she thought about that farthing with an absurd and unreasonable pang. It would have made such a wonderful ending to her Mole. But she was comforted when she imagined with what incredulous delight some later child, exploring, must have found it.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Miniver. “They do both, I’m certain. But the trouble is, they keep the two processes entirely separate. They’ve never learnt to think with their hearts or feel with their minds.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“Besides, Mrs. Miniver was beginning to feel more than a little weary of exchanging ideas (especially political ones) and of hearing other people exchange theirs. It’s all very well, she reflected, when the ideas have had time to flower, or at least to bud, so that we can pick them judiciously, present them with a bow, and watch them unfold in the warmth of each other’s understanding: but there is far too much nowadays of pulling up the wretched little things just to see how they are growing. Half the verbal sprigs we hand each other are nothing but up-ended rootlets, earthy and immature: left longer in the ground they might have come to something, but once they are exposed we seldom manage to replant them. It is largely the fault, no doubt, of the times we live in. Things happen too quickly, crisis follows crisis, the soil of our minds is perpetually disturbed. Each of us, to relieve his feelings, broadcasts his own running commentary on the preposterous and bewildering events of the hour: and this, nowadays, is what passes for conversation.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“And, of course, I said to her before she left: ‘Even if the worst does come to the worst, you must make it quite clear to the authorities that I can only accept Really Nice Children.’” “And where,” Mrs. Miniver could not restrain herself from asking, “are the other ones to go?” “There are sure to be camps,” said Lady Constance firmly.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“into the small of your back and cupped your head tenderly between padded cushions. It ensured for you a more complete muscular relaxation than any armchair that you could buy for your own home: but it left your tormented nerves without even the solace of a counter-irritant. In the old days the victim’s attention had at least been distracted by an ache in the back, a crick in the neck, pins and needles in the legs, and the uneasy tickling of plush under the palm. But now, too efficiently suspended between heaven and earth, you were at liberty to concentrate on hell.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“And to discuss them with one’s own parents would have been quite impossible: horizontal divisions were far stronger in those days than vertical ones. Perhaps the psychologists were right, and the “child mind”—that convenient abstraction—matured earlier nowadays. On the other hand, she herself had outgrown dolls by the age of nine, and here was Judy, at eleven, buying a new one.”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver

“Oh, so do I. But what I mean is, she wouldn’t have done for you. And what’s more,” pursued Judy, “Marigold’s mother wouldn’t have done for me. At all,” she added with conviction. “Why don’t you like Marigold’s mother?” asked Mrs. Miniver. “She’s always very kind to you. And she’s frightfully fond of children.” “Oh, I know. She told me so. But you see, when people are frightfully fond of children you never know whether they really like you or not, do you?”
― Jan Struther, Mrs. Miniver