Frasi di John Galsworthy

pagina 2

“Le donne non hanno quel senso delle difficoltà che hanno gli uomini. Le difficoltà delle donne sono fisiche e reali: quelle degli uomini sono intellettuali e formali. " È impossibile " dicono sempre. Le donne non dicono mai così. Prima agiscono e dopo vedono se la cosa è o no possibile.”

“Ogni donna è sul mercato finché non si sposa.”

“È più facile che cielo e terra spariscano piuttosto che una piccola parola della legge non abbia il suo effetto.”

“Qualche volta […] penso che la legge è supervalutata. È, in realtà, un sistema per fare le cose all'ingrosso, con tanta accuratezza nell'adeguare la condanna al crimine quanta ce n'è nella diagnosi di un medico che vede per la prima volta il paziente; eppure, per qualche misteriosa ragione, noi le attribuiamo le virtù del Calice Sacro e trattiamo i suoi comandamenti come se fossero trasmessi dal Signore stesso.”

“È una cosa spaventosa quando un uomo cessa di essere umano.”

“Life was to be lived — not torpidly dozed through in this queer cultured place, where age was in the blood! Life was for love — to be enjoyed!”

“Looking back on the long-stretched-out body of one's work, it is interesting to mark the endless duel fought within a man between the emotional and critical sides of his nature, first one, then the other, getting the upper hand, and too seldom fusing till the result has the mellowness of full achievement. One can even tell the nature of one's readers, by their preference for the work which reveals more of this side than of that.”

“Summer — summer — summer! The soundless footsteps on the grass!”

“I paused, watching the swallows; for they seemed to me the symbol, in their swift, sure curvetting, all daring and balance and surprise, of the delicate poise and motion of Art, that visits no two men alike, in a world where no two things of all the things there be, are quite the same.”

“When Man evolved Pity, he did a queer thing — deprived himself of the power of living life as it is without wishing it to become something different.”

“Men fall, roughly speaking, into two flocks: Those whose intelligence is uninquiring in the face of Art, and does not demand to be appeased before their emotions can be stirred; and those who, having a speculative bent of mind, must first be satisfied by an enlightening quality in a work of Art, before that work of Art can awaken in them feeling. The audience of the realist is drawn from this latter type of man; the much larger audience of the romantic artist from the former; together with, in both cases, those fastidious few for whom all Art is style and only style, and who welcome either kind, so long as it is good enough.”

“The seeing of things as they really are — the seeing of a proportion veiled from other eyes (together with the power of expression), is what makes a man an artist. What makes him a great artist is a high fervour of spirit, which produces a superlative, instead of a comparative, clarity of vision.”

“The Forsytes were resentful of something, not individually, but as a family; this resentment expressed itself in an added perfection of raiment, an exuberance of family cordiality, an exaggeration of family importance, and — the sniff. Danger — so indispensable in bringing out the fundamental quality of any society, group, or individual — was what the Forsytes scented; the premonition of danger put a burnish on their armour. For the first time, as a family, they appeared to have an instinct of being in contact, with some strange and unsafe thing.”

“What is creative instinct, if not an incessant living sympathy with Nature, a constant craving like that of Nature's own, to fashion something new out of all that comes within the grasp of those faculties with which Nature has endowed us? The qualities of vision, of fancy, and of imaginative power, are no more divorced from Nature, than are the qualities of common-sense and courage. They are rarer, that is all.”

“I sat, just watching the moon creep up, and hearing the thin, dry rustle of the leaves along the holly hedge. And there came to me this thought: What is this Universe — that never had beginning and will never have an end — but a myriad striving to perfect pictures never the same, so blending and fading one into another, that all form one great perfected picture? And what are we — ripples on the tides of a birthless, deathless, equipoised Creative-Purpose — but little works of Art?”

“Love! Beyond measure — beyond death — it nearly kills. But one wouldn't have been without it.”

“I don't know much about morality and that, but there is this: It's always worth while before you do anything to consider whether it's going to hurt another person more than is absolutely necessary.”

“How to save the old that's worth saving, whether in landscape, houses, manners, institutions, or human types, is one of our greatest problems, and the one that we bother least about.”

“One's eyes are what one is, one's mouth what one becomes.”

“Love of beauty is really only the sex instinct, which nothing but complete union satisfies.”

“The value of a sentiment is the amount of sacrifice you are prepared to make for it.”

“There are things worth being loyal to, surely. Coffee, for instance, or one’s religion.”