A human life, I think, should be well rooted in some spot of native land, where it may get the love of tender kinship for the face of the earth, for the labours of men go forth to, for the sounds and accents that haunt it, for whatever will give that early home a familiar unmistakable difference among the future widening of knowledge: a spot where the definiteness of early memories may be inwrought with affection, and kindly acquaintance with all neighbors, even to the dogs and donkeys, may spread not by sentimental effort and reflection, but as a sweet habit of the blood.
George EliotAbout author
- Author's profession: Author, Writer
- Nationality: british
- Born: November 22, 1819
- Died: December 22, 1880
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But Robin: their dear little Robs. More than ten years later, his death remained an agony; there was no glossing any detail; its horror was not subject to repair or permutation by any of the narrative devices that the Cleves knew. And—since this willful amnesia had kept Robin's death from being translated into that sweet old family vernacular which smoothed even the bitterest mysteries into comfortable, comprehensible form—the memory of that day's events had a chaotic, fragmented quality,...
Donna Tartt
I’m sure we should not shut our hearts against the healing influences that nature offers us. But i understand your feeling. I think we all experience the same thing. We resent the thought that anything can please use when someone we love is no longer here to share the pleasure with us, and we almost feel as we were unfaithful to our sorrow when we find our interest in life returning to us
L. M. Montgomery
