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The yoke a man creates for himself by wrong-doing will breed hate in the kindliest nature . . .
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Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that’s on its mind and can’t make itself understood, and so can’t rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving.
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Then idiots talk, said Eugene, leaning back, folding his arms, smoking with his eyes shut, and speaking slightly through his nose, of Energy. If there is a word in the dictionary under any letter from A to Z that I abominate, it is energy.
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There are accents in the eye which are not on the tongue, and more tales come from pale lips than can enter an ear. It is both the grandeur and the pain of the remoter moods that they avoid the pathway of sound.
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There are events which are so great that if a writer has participated in them his obligation is to write truly rather than assume the presumption of altering them with invention.
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There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.
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There are so many unpleasant things in the world already that there is no use in imagining any more.
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There are things so deep and complex that only intuition can reach it in our stage of development as human beings. And to Poe… well, a great logician could be an enemy to him, what he called conventional world reason.
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There can be no literary equivalent to truth.
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There is always an inertia to be overcome in striking out a new line of conduct — not more in ourselves, it seems, than in circumscribing events, which appear as if leagued together to allow no novelties in the way of amelioration.
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There is an incompatibility between literary creation and political activity.
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There is first the literature of knowledge, and secondly, the literature of power. The function of the first is–to teach; the function of the second is–to move, the first is a rudder, the second an oar or a sail. The first speaks to the mere discursive understanding; the second speaks ultimately, it may happen, to the higher understanding or reason, but always through affections of pleasure and sympathy.
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There is no happiness in love, except at the end of an English novel.
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There is no real teacher who in practice does not believe in the existence of the soul, or in a magic that acts on it through speech.- Allan Bloom
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There is no road to wealth so easy and respectable as that of matrimony . . .
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There is no royal road to learning; no short cut to the acquirement of any art.
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There is no way of writing well and also of writing easily.
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There is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment, for relieving sorrow.
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There is probably a smell of roasted chestnuts and other good comfortable things all the time, for we are telling Winter Stories – Ghost Stories, or more shame for us – round the Christmas fire; and we have never stirred, except to draw a little nearer to it.
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There is something strangely winning to most women in that offer of the firm arm; the help is not wanted physically at that moment, but the sense of help, the presence of strength that is outside them and yet theirs, meets a continual want of the imagination.
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