My Brother Michael Quotes

“I suppose one gets to know men quickest by the things they take for granted.”
― Mary Stewart, My Brother Michael

“Nothing ever happens to me.”
― Mary Stewart, My Brother Michael

“If a man goes up into Parnassus after sunset, why should he not see strange things? The gods still walk there, and a man who would not go carefully in the country of the gods is a fool.”
― Mary Stewart, My Brother Michael

“The village is perched on a precipitous hillside, and the houses are built in tiers, one up behind the other, the floor of one level with the roof of the next. The whole village looks as if it were just about to slide into the depths of the valley below.”
― Mary Stewart, My Brother Michael

“Yes, but the artist?" said Nigel almost fiercely. "He's different, you know he is. He's driven by some compulsion: if he can't do what he knows he has to do with his life he might as well be dead. He's got to break through the world's indifference, or else break himself against it. He can't help it.”
― Mary Stewart, My Brother Michael

“I think the secret is that it belongs to all of us - to us of the West. We've learned to think in its terms, and to live in its laws. It's given us almost everything that our world has that is worthwhile. Truth, straight thinking, freedom, beauty. It's our second language, our second line of thought, our second country. We all have our own country -- and Greece.”
― Mary Stewart, My Brother Michael

“You made a discovery yesterday; remember? 'No man is an Island.' It's true in more ways than one. Don't go on hating yourself because there are some things you can't do and can't face on your own. None of us can.”
― Mary Stewart, My Brother Michael

“What a personage says or does reveals a certain moral purpose; and a good element of character, if the purpose so revealed is good. Such goodness is possible in every type of personage, even in a woman. ARISTOTLE: The Art of Poetry. (tr. Ingram Bywater.)”
― Mary Stewart, My Brother Michael

“You underrate yourself so shockingly, Camilla. You’re not to play second fiddle any more. Understand?’

‘Yes.’

He hesitated, and then said rather abruptly, ‘You made a discovery yesterday; remember? ‘No man is an Island.’ It’s true in more ways than one. Don’t go on hating yourself because there are some things you can’t do and can’t face on your own. None of us can. You seem to think you ought to be able to deal with anything that comes along, much as I might, or someone like me. That’s absurd; and it’s time you stopped despising yourself for not being something you were never meant to be. You’ll do as you are, Camilla; believe me, you will.”
― Mary Stewart, My Brother Michael

“I'm not a person whom the sight of olive oil repels, and I love Greek cooking. We had onion soup with grated cheese on top; then the souvlaka, which comes spiced with lemon and herbs, and flanked with chips and green beans in oil and a big dish of tomato salad. Then cheese, and halvas, which is a sort of loaf made of grated nuts and honey, and is delicious. And finally the wonderful grapes of Greece.”
― Mary Stewart, My Brother Michael

“Merciful heavens, what a view!"
We were running along a high white road that hugged the side of Parnassus. Below us to the left, the steep hillside fell away to the valley of the Pleistus, the river that winds down between Parnassus' great flanks and the rounded ridges of Mount Cirphis, towards the plain of Crissa and the sea. All along the Pleistus – at this season a dry white serpent of shingle beds that glittered in the sun – all along its course, filling the valley bottom with the tumbling, whispering green-silver of water, flowed the olive woods; themselves a river, a green-and-silver flood of plumy branches as soft as sea spray, over which the ever-present breezes slid, not as they do over corn, in flying shadows, but in whitening breaths, little gasps that lift and toss the olive crests for all the world like breaking spray. Long pale ripples followed one another down the valley. Where, at the valley's end, Parnassus thrust a sudden buttress of gaunt rock into the flood, the sea of grey trees seemed to break round it, flowing on, flooding out to fill the flat plain beyond, still rippling, still moving with the ceaseless sheen and shadow of flowing water, till in the west the motion was stilled against the flanks of the distant hills and to the south against the sudden sharp bright gleam of the sea.”
― Mary Stewart, My Brother Michael