E.M. Forster

After all, is not a real Hell better than a manufactured Heaven?

"You care for me a little bit, I do think," he admitted, "but I can't hang all my life on a little bit. You don't. You hang yours on Anne. You don't worry whether your relation with her is platonic or not, you only know it's big enough to hang a life on."

Love was an emotion through which you occasionally enjoyed yourself. It could not do things.

Lust is negligible when absent.

When love flies it is remembered not as love but as something else. Blessed are the uneducated, who forget it entirely, and are never conscious of folly or pruriency in the past, of long aimless conversations.

Science is better than sympathy, if only it is science.

What was the use of money-grubbing, eating, and playing games? That was all he did or had ever done.

The ethereal past had blinded him, and the highest happiness he could dream was a return to it.

He had lost the precocious clearness of the child which transfigures and explains the universe, offering answers of miraculous insight and beauty.

"Someone to last your whole life and you his. I suppose such a thing can't really happen outside sleep."

He loved men and always had loved them. He longed to embrace them and mingle his being with theirs. Now that the man who returned his love had been lost, he admitted this.

"For love to end where it begins is far more beautiful, and Nature knows it."