Zitate von Thomas Hardy
Ein bekanntes Zitat von Thomas Hardy:
Die Seelen der Menschen fühlen sich vielleicht in immer innigerer Übereinstimmung mit einer Außenwelt von jener Schwermut, die unserem Geschlecht, als es noch jung war, einfach häßlich vorkam. Die Zeit scheint nahe, da einzig der herbe Adel eines Moors und des Meeres oder eines Gebirges das in der Natur ist, was mit der Gemütsverfassung des nachdenklicheren Teils der Menschheit völlig im Einklang steht.
Informationen über Thomas Hardy
Schriftsteller, "Tess von dŽUrbervilles" (England, 1840 - 1928).
Thomas Hardy · Geburtsdatum · Sterbedatum
Thomas Hardy wäre heute 183 Jahre, 11 Monate, 3 Tage oder 67.177 Tage alt.
Geboren am 02.06.1840 in Upper Bockhampton
Gestorben am 11.01.1928 in Max Gate
Sternzeichen: ♊ Zwillinge
Unbekannt
Weitere 51 Zitate von Thomas Hardy
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I look into my glass, And viewing wasting skin, And say, 'Would God it came to pass My heart had shrunk as thin!' For then, I, undistrest, By hearts grown cold to me, Could lonely wait my endless rest With equanimity. But Time, to make me grieve, Part steals, lets part abide; And shakes this fragile frame at eve With throbbings of noontide.
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If Galileo had said in verse that the world moved, the Inquisition might have let him alone.
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If way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at the worst.
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In a solitude of the sea Deep from human vanity, And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she. Steel chambers, late the pyres Of her salamandrine fires, Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres. Over the mirrors meant To glass the opulent The sea-worm crawls-grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.
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In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy And the roof-lamp's oily flame Played down on his listless form and face, Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going, Or whence he came.
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It is hard for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs.
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It was at present a place perfectly accordant with man's nature-neither ghastly, hateful, nor ugly:neither commonplace, unmeaning, nor tame; but, like man, slighted and enduring; and withal singularly colossal and mysterious in its swarthy monotony. As with some persons who have long lived a past, solitude seemed to look out of its countenance. It had a lonely face, suggesting tragical possibilities.
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It was one of those sequestered spots outside the gates of the world . . . where, from time to time, dramas of a grandeur and unity truly Sophoclean are enacted in the real, by virtue of the concentrated passions and closely knit interdependence of the lives therein.
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Let me enjoy the earth no less Because the all-enacting Might That fashioned forth its loveliness Had other aims than my delight.
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Only a man harrowing clods In a slow silent walk With an old horse that stumbles and nods Half asleep as they stalk. Only thin smoke without flame From the heaps of couch-grass; Yet this will go onward the same Though Dynasties pass. Yonder a maid and her wight Come whispering by: War's annals will cloud into night Ere their story die.
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She had been made to break an accepted social law, but no law known to the environment in which she fancied herself such an anomaly.
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She whose youth had seemed to teach that happiness was but the occasional episode in a general drama of pain.
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Some folk want their luck buttered.
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The bower we shrined to Tennyson, Gentlemen, Is roof-wrecked; damps there drip upon Sagged seats, the creeper-nails are rust, The spider is sole denizen; Even she who voiced those rhymes is dust, Gentlemen!
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The business of the poet and novelist is to show the sorriness underlying the grandest things, and the grandeur underlying the sorriest things.
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The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything.
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The two forces were at work here as everywhere, the inherent will to enjoy, and the circumstantial will against enjoyment.
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This is the weather the cuckoo likes, And so do I; When showers betumble the chestnut spikes, And nestlings fly: And the little brown nightingale bills his best, And they sit outside at 'The Travellers' Rest', And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest, And citizens dream of the south and west, And so do I.
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War makes rattling good history; but Peace is poor reading.
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Well, World, you have kept faith with me, Kept faith with me; Upon the whole you have proved to be Much as you said you were.
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