| Quote | Author | Source | Email Quote |
|---|
| "It's but little good you'll do a-watering the last year's crop." | George Eliot | Adam Bede |  |
| Deep, unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state. | George Eliot | Adam Bede | |
| "We hand folks over to God's mercy, and show none ourselves." | George Eliot | Adam Bede | |
| Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds . . . | George Eliot | Adam Bede | |
| "Consequences are unpitying. Our deeds carry their terrible consequences, quite apart from any fluctuations that went before--consequences that are hardly ever confined to ourselves. " | George Eliot | Adam Bede | |
| Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsion; and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every movement. | George Eliot | Adam Bede | |
| . . . imagination is a licensed trespasser: it has no fear of dogs, but may climb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity. | George Eliot | Adam Bede | |
| " . . . the natur o' things doesn't change, though it seems as if one's own life was nothing but change. The square o' four is sixteen, and you must lengthen your lever in proportion to your weight, is as true when a man's miserable as when he's happy; and the best o' working is, it gives you a grip hold o' things outside your own lot." | George Eliot | Adam Bede | |
| Love has a way of cheating itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitary hide-and-seek; it is pleased with assurances that it all the while disbelieves. | George Eliot | Adam Bede | |
| It was a still afternoon--the golden light was lingering languidly among the upper boughs, only glancing down here and there on the purple pathway and its edge of faintly sprinkled moss: an afternoon in which destiny disguises her cold awful face behind a hazy radiant veil, encloses us in warm downy wings, and poisons us with violet-scented breath. | George Eliot | Adam Bede | |
