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Images from Works of John Galsworthy by Galsworthy

Produced by David Widger




Attack his fleas--though he was supposed to have none

Dogs: with rudiments of altruism and a sense of God

Don't hurt others more than is absolutely necessary

Early morning does not mince words

Era which had canonised hypocrisy

Forgiven me; but she could never forget

Health--He did not want it at such cost

Is anything more pathetic than the faith of the young?

Law takes a low view of human nature

Let her come to me as she will, when she will, not at all if she will not

Love has no age, no limit; and no death

Never to see yourself as others see you

Old men learn to forego their whims

People who don't live are wonderfully preserved

Perching-place; never--never her cage!

Putting up a brave show of being natural

Socialists: they want our goods

Thank you for that good lie

To seem to be respectable was to be

You have to buy experience


COURAGE Is but a word, and yet, of words, The only sentinel of permanence; The ruddy watch-fire of cold winter days, We steal its comfort, lift our weary swords, And on. For faith--without it--has no sense; And love to wind of doubt and tremor sways; And life for ever quaking marsh must tread.

Laws give it not; before it prayer will blush; Hope has it not; nor pride of being true; 'Tis the mysterious soul which never yields, But hales us on and on to breast the rush Of all the fortunes we shall happen through. And when Death calls across his shadowy fields-- Dying, it answers: "Here! I am not dead!"


The simple truth, which underlies the whole story, that where sex attraction is utterly and definitely lacking in one partner to a union, no amount of pity, or reason, or duty, or what not, can overcome a repulsion implicit in Nature.

The tragedy of whose life is the very simple, uncontrollable tragedy of being unlovable, without quite a thick enough skin to be thoroughly unconscious of the fact. Not even Fleur loves Soames as he feels he ought to be loved. But in pitying Soames, readers incline, perhaps, to animus against Irene: After all, they think, he wasn't a bad fellow, it wasn't his fault; she ought to have forgiven him, and so on!

"Let the dead Past bury its dead" would be a better saying if the Past ever died. The persistence of the Past is one of those tragi-comic blessings which each new age denies, coming cocksure on to the stage to mouth its claim to a perfect novelty.

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