The man, most man, works best for men: and, if most man indeed, he gets his manhood plainest from his soul.
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- A woman cannot do the thing she ought, which means whatever perfect thing she can, in life, in art, in science, but she fears to let the perfect action take her part and rest there: she must prove what she can do before she does it, — prate of woman’s rights, of woman’s mission, woman’s function, till the men (who are prating, too, on their side) cry, A woman’s function plainly is… to talk. Poor souls, they are very reasonably vexed!
- He, in his developed manhood, stood, a little sunburn by the glare of life.
- How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
- The works of women are symbolical. We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our sight, producing what? A pair of slippers, sir, to put on when you’re weary — or a stool. To stumble over and vex you… curse that stool! Or else at best, a cushion, where you lean and sleep, and dream of something we are not, but would be for your sake. Alas, alas! This hurts most, this… that, after all, we are paid the worth of our work, perhaps.
- It is not merely the likeness which is precious… but the association and the sense of nearness involved in the thing… the fact of the very shadow of the person lying there fixed forever! It is the very sanctification of portraits I think — and it is not at all monstrous in me to say that I would rather have such a memorial of one I dearly loved, than the noblest Artist’s work ever produced.
- Let no one till his death be called unhappy. Measure not the work until the day’s out and the labor done.