Quotations About / On:
Only the knife knows what goes on in the heart of a pumpkin.
(Simone Schwarz-Bart (b. 1938), Gaudeloupean author. The Bridge of Beyond, p. 117, Éditions du Seuil (1972).)
And at dawn, the drums still beat on the sleepless plain like an unstoppable heart.
(Jacques Roumain (1907-1945), Haitian author, ethnologist, political activist. Repr. Éditions Messidor (1992). Masters of the Dew, p. 67, Les Éditeurs Français Réunis (1946).)
They have a right to censure that have a heart to help: the rest is cruelty, not justice.
(William Penn (1644-1718), British religious leader, founder of Pennsylvania. Some Fruits of Solitude, pt. 1, no. 46 (1693).)
Jealousy is never satisfied with anything short of an omniscience that would detect the subtlest fold of the heart.
(George Eliot [Mary Ann (or Marian) Evans] (1819-1880), British novelist. The Mill on the Floss, bk. 6, ch. 10 (1860).
Pseudonym of Mary Ann (or Marian) Evans.)
As the arteries grow hard, the heart grows soft.
(H.L. (Henry Lewis) Mencken (18801956), U.S. journalist, critic. A Mencken Chrestomathy, ch. 30, p. 618, Knopf (1949).)
Home is where the heart is and hence a movable feast.
(Angela Carter (1940-1992), British postmodern novelist. repr. Virago (1992). Nothing Sacred: Selected Writings, "My Father's House," New Society (1976).)
Praise out of season, or tactlessly bestowed, can freeze the heart as much as blame.
(Pearl S. Buck (1892-1973), U.S. author. "First Meeting," To My Daughters, With Love (1967).)
The words of kindness are more healing to a drooping heart than balm or honey.
(Sarah Fielding (1710-1768), British novelist. The Adventures of David Simple, Volume the Last, bk. 7, ch. 10 (1754).)
The heart of another is a dark forest, always, no matter how close it has been to one's own.
(Willa Cather (1873-1947), U.S. novelist. Godfrey St. Peter, in The Professor's House, book I, ch. VIII (1925).
The professor is surprised to discover that his wife, too, has suffered from the emotional distance that has arisen between them.)
The within, all that inner space one never sees, the brain and the heart and other caverns where thought and feeling dance their sabbath.
(Samuel Beckett (1906-1989), Irish dramatist, novelist. First published in 1953. Molloy, in Molloy, p. 11, Grove Press (1970).)