Activists From England

"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."

"Justice is a machine that, when someone has once given it the starting push, rolls on of itself."

"To take life," went on the old man in a voice which, though charged with strong emotion, seemed to be speaking to itself, "was the chief mark of the insensate barbarism still prevailing in those days. It sprang from that most irreligious fetish, the belief in the permanence of the individual ego after death. From the worship of that fetish had come all the sorrows of the human race. … They did not stop to love each other in this life; they were so sure they had all eternity to do it in. The doctrine was an invention to enable men to act like dogs with clear consciences. Love could never come to full fruition till it was destroyed."

"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."

"The world's a fine place for those who go out to take it; there's lots of unknown stuff in it yet. I'll fill your lap, my pretty, so full of treasures that you shan't know yourself. A man wasn't meant to sit at home..."

"Perfection, cosmically, was nothing but perfect Equanimity and Harmony; and in human relations, nothing but perfect Love and Justice. And Perfection began to glow before the eyes of the Western world like a new star, whose light touched with glamour all things as they came forth from Mystery, till to Mystery they were ready to return. This — I thought is surely what the Western world has dimly been rediscovering. There has crept into our minds once more the feeling that the Universe is all of a piece, Equipoise supreme; and all things equally wonderful, and mysterious, and valuable. We have begun, in fact, to have a glimmering of the artist's creed, that nothing may we despise or neglect — that everything is worth the doing well, the making fair — that our God, Perfection, is implicit everywhere, and the revelation of Him the business of our Art."

"Art is the great and universal refreshment. For Art is never dogmatic; holds no brief for itself; you may take it, or you may leave it. It does not force itself rudely where it is not wanted. It is reverent to all tempers, to all points of view. But it is wilful — the very wind in the comings and goings of its influence, an uncapturable fugitive, visiting our hearts at vagrant, sweet moments; since we often stand even before the greatest works of Art without being able quite to lose ourselves! That restful oblivion comes, we never quite know when — and it is gone! But when it comes, it is a spirit hovering with cool wings, blessing us from least to greatest, according to our powers; a spirit deathless and varied as human life itself."

"In fact, the real problem with the thesis of A Genealogy of Morals is that the noble and the aristocrat are just as likely to be stupid as the plebeian. I had noted in my teens that major writers are usually those who have had to struggle against the odds -- to "pull their cart out of the mud," as I put it -- while writers who have had an easy start in life are usually second rate -- or at least, not quite first-rate. Dickens, Balzac, Dostoevsky, Shaw, H. G. Wells, are examples of the first kind; in the twentieth century, John Galsworthy, Graham Greene, Evelyn Waugh, and Samuel Beckett are examples of the second kind. They are far from being mediocre writers; yet they tend to be tinged with a certain pessimism that arises from never having achieved a certain resistance against problems."

"It seems to me that Justice, so far as the question of art goes, just establishes and vindicates you. (I didn't see Strife.) I've always opposed myself to your very austere method hitherto. I've not liked a sort of cold hardness in much of your work, but since it leads you at last to the quite tremendous force of the play—well, I give in."

"Pity for the unfortunate is, indeed, the main emotion roused by most of Galsworthy's works, but the only thing which really sweeps him away is mere sympathy with young love and beauty. Here, too, he never pretends that his young lovers have any especially admirable qualities; they long and they suffer, and that is enough."

"The novels are remarkable for a very sensitive and exact observation of life as well as for purity of style. By temperament and perhaps also by his artistic conscience Galsworthy avoided many appeals to a reader's sympathy which seemed to him not consistent with objective truth. He belonged to no political party and professed to have no political convictions."

"But when we have said that In Chancery is not a great novel, we would assure our readers that it is a fascinating, brilliant book."

"The Man of Property has the elements of a very great novel, a very great satire. It sets out to reveal the social being in all his strength and inferiority. But the author has not the courage to carry it through. The greatness of the book rests in its new and sincere and amazingly profound satire. It is the ultimate satire on modern humanity, and done from the inside, with really consummate skill and sincere creative passion, something quite new. It seems to be a real effort to show up the social being in all his weirdness. And then it fizzles out."

"There can be no question that your admirable play [Justice] bore a most important part in creating that atmosphere of sympathy and interest which is so noticeable upon this subject at the present time."

"I greatly admire the keen and vigorous way in which you are driving forward a good cause. I am in entire sympathy with your general mood."

"Will you let me take this opportunity of saying how much I enjoyed and admired your play Strife. It is a fine piece of work which will long survive the silly chatter of the day."

"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."

"Everything known before it happens; and headlines twice the size of the events."

"Religion was nearly dead because there was no longer real belief in future life; but something was struggling to take its place — service — social service — the ants' creed, the bees' creed."

"The beginnings and endings of all human undertakings are untidy, the building of a house, the writing of a novel, the demolition of a bridge, and, eminently, the finish of a voyage."

"Happiness lies in breadth of heart. And breadth of heart is that inward freedom which has the power to understand, feel with, and, if need be, help others. In breadth of heart are founded justice, love, sacrifice; without it there would be no special meaning to any of our efforts, and the tale of all human life would be still no more than that of supremely gifted animals, many of whose communities are highly efficient, and have instinctive unity founded on experience of its utility, but none of that conscious altruism which is without perception of future benefit to self, and works from sheer recognition of its own beauty. In sum, human civilization is the outgrowth of conscious altruism; and the directive Moral Purpose in the world nothing but our dim perception, ever growing through spiritual friction, that we are all bound more and more toward the understanding of ourselves and each other, and all that this carries with it."

"This world (as all will admit) is one of the innumerable expressions of an Unknowable Creative Purpose, which colloquially we call God; that which not every one will admit is that this Creative Purpose works in its fashioning, not only of matter but of what we call spirit, through friction, through the rubbing together of the thoughts and the hearts of men. While the material condition of our planet, the heat or friction within it, remains favorable to human life, there will be, there must needs be, a continual crescendo in the stature of humanity, through the ever increasing friction of human spirits one with the other; friction supplied by life itself, and next after life, by those transcripts of life, those expressions of human longing, which we know as art."

"God save the pennon, ragged to the dawn, That signs to moon to stand, and sun to fly; And flutters when the weak is overborne To stem the tide of fate and certainty. That knows not reason, and that seeks no fame —So! Undismayed beneath the serried clouds, Raise up the banner of forlorn defence — A jest to the complacency of crowds — Bright-haloed with the one diviner sense: To hold itself as nothing to itself; And in the quest of its imagined star To lose all thought of after-recompense!"

"Come! Let us lay a lance in rest, And tilt at windmills under a wild sky! For who would live so petty and unblest That dare not tilt at something ere he die; Rather than, screened by safe majority, Preserve his little life to little end, And never raise a rebel cry!"

"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?"

"He is but a poor philosopher who holds a view so narrow as to exclude forms not to his personal taste. No realist can love romantic Art so much as he loves his own, but when that Art fulfils the laws of its peculiar being, if he would be no blind partisan, he must admit it. The romanticist will never be amused by realism, but let him not for that reason be so parochial as to think that realism, when it achieves vitality, is not Art. For what is Art but the perfected expression of self in contact with the world; and whether that self be of enlightening, or of fairy-telling temperament, is of no moment whatsoever. The tossing of abuse from realist to romanticist and back is but the sword-play of two one-eyed men with their blind side turned toward each other. Shall not each attempt be judged on its own merits? If found not shoddy, faked, or forced, but true to itself, true to its conceiving mood, and fair-proportioned part to whole; so that it lives — then, realistic or romantic, in the name of Fairness let it pass! Of all kinds of human energy, Art is surely the most free, the least parochial; and demands of us an essential tolerance of all its forms. Shall we waste breath and ink in condemnation of artists, because their temperaments are not our own?"

"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."

"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."

"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."

"Only out of stir and change is born new salvation. To deny that is to deny belief in man, to turn our backs on courage! It is well, indeed, that some should live in closed studies with the paintings and the books of yesterday — such devoted students serve Art in their own way. But the fresh-air world will ever want new forms. We shall not get them without faith enough to risk the old! The good will live, the bad will die; and tomorrow only can tell us which is which!"

"Is not the training of an artist a training in the due relation of one thing with another, and in the faculty of expressing that relation clearly; and, even more, a training in the faculty of disengaging from self the very essence of self — and passing that essence into other selves by so delicate means that none shall see how it is done, yet be insensibly unified? Is not the artist, of all men, foe and nullifier of partisanship and parochialism, of distortions and extravagance, the discoverer of that jack-o'-lantern — Truth; for, if Truth be not Spiritual Proportion I know not what it is. Truth it seems to me — is no absolute thing, but always relative, the essential symmetry in the varying relationships of life; and the most perfect truth is but the concrete expression of the most penetrating vision. Life seen throughout as a countless show of the finest works of Art; Life shaped, and purged of the irrelevant, the gross, and the extravagant; Life, as it were, spiritually selected — that is Truth; a thing as multiple, and changing, as subtle, and strange, as Life itself, and as little to be bound by dogma. Truth admits but the one rule: No deficiency, and no excess! Disobedient to that rule — nothing attains full vitality. And secretly fettered by that rule is Art, whose business is the creation of vital things."

"A patriot is someone who cares what happens in their country."

"Our enemy really isn't capitalism, it's cynicism. That's one the things I learned from Woody … Not to be cynical … That cynicism … It destroys you, it rots you away from the inside. So that sense of optimism and humanity … which 20 years ago I would have called socialism but now I'll call compassion … You know, that idea is still out there and alive and if you can plug into that and encourage that it makes it all worth while."

"But oh how it feels so real, Lying here with no one near. Only you and you can't hear me When I say softly, slowly.Hold me closer tiny dancer, Count the headlights on the highway. Lay me down in sheets of linen, You had a busy day today."

"Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band. Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man. Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand. And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand."

"Lately I've been thinking how much I miss my lady. Amoreena's in the cornfield brightening the daybreak, Living like a lusty flower, running through the grass for hours, Rolling through the hay like a puppy child."

"So where to now St. Peter, If it's true I'm in your hands? I may not be a Christian, But I've done all one man can. I understand I'm on the road Where all that was is gone. So where to now St. Peter? Show me which road I'm on,br>Which road I'm on."

"As soon as this is over we'll go home To plant the seeds of justice in our bones, To watch the children growing and see the women sewing. There'll be laughter when the bells of freedom ring."

"You're the son of your father, Try a little bit harder. Do for me as he would do for you. With blood and water bricks and mortar, He built for you a home. You're the son of your father, So treat me as your own."

"In the quiet silent seconds I turned off the light switch And I came down to meet you in the half light the moon left. While a cluster of night jars sang some songs out of tune, A mantle of bright light shone down from a room."

"Now they've found me, At last they've found me. It's hard to run From a starving family. Now they've found me. Well I won't run; I'm tired of hearing There goes a well-known gun."

"Holy Moses I have been deceived. Now the wind has changed direction and I'll have to leave. Won't you please excuse my frankness, but it's not my cup of tea. Holy Moses I have been deceived."

"Through a glass eye your throne Is the one danger zone. Take me to the pilot for control; Take me to the pilot of your soul."

"And you can tell everybody, this is your song. It may be quite simple but now that it's done, I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind That I put down in words How wonderful life is while you're in the world."

"For this dark and lonely room Projects a shadow cast in gloom. And my eyes are mirrors Of the world outside. Thinking of the way That the wind can turn the tide. And these shadows turn From purple into grey."

"Goodbye England's rose, May you ever grow in our hearts. You were the grace that placed itself Where lives were torn apart.You called out to our country, And you whispered to those in pain. Now you belong to Heaven, And the stars spell out your name.And it seems to me you lived your life Like a candle in the wind, Never fading with the sunset, When the rain set in."

"Don't go breaking my heart. I couldn't if I tried. Honey if I get restless... Baby you're not that kind.Don't go breaking my heart. You take the weight off me. Honey when you knock on my door, I gave you my key."

"`Cause I live and breathe Philadelphia freedom. From the day that I was born I've waved the flag. Philadelphia freedom took me knee-high to a man. Yeah gave me peace of mind my daddy never had.Oh Philadelphia freedom shine on me, I love you. Shine a light through the eyes of the ones left behind. Shine a light, shine a light Shine a light, won't you shine a light. Philadelphia freedom, I love you, yes I do."

"That record she did with Peter Gabriel saved my life. That record helped me get sober. So she played a big part in my actual downfall and kind of "rebirth'" as it were. That record helped me so much. I never told her that, but it did."

""Wuthering Heights" was not your normal type song — but that's why it was so brilliant. It was something out the norm. When something like that comes along, they don’t come along that often. When does the next Kate Bush come along, after Kate Bush? There hasn’t been one."