E.M. Forster

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."

The mist would lower again, he felt sure, and with an unhappy sigh, he pulled Durham's head against his knee, as though it was a talisman for clear living.

The man was bourgeois, unfinished and stupid- the worst of confidants.

To anyone he would have seemed beautiful, and to Maurice who reached him by two paths he became the World's desire.

The incestuous jealousy, the mortification, the rage at his past obtuseness- these might pass, and having done much harm they did pass.

Maurice's secret life can be understood now; it was part brutal, part ideal, like his dreams.

They kissed, scarcely wishing it.

"Oh, you'll get out. It's only the Hell of Disgust. You've never done anything to be ashamed of, so you don't know what's really Hell."

I am perfectly aware I am only a servant that never presume on your loving kindness to take liberties or in any other way.

He didn't so much as have hopes, for hope distracts, and he had a great deal to see to.

Then darkness rolled up again, the darkness that is primeval but not eternal, and yields to its own painful dawn.