Ellen Anderson Gholson Glasgow (April 22, 1873 – November 21, 1945) was an American novelist who portrayed the changing world of the contemporary South.
The government's like a mule, it's slow and it's sure; it's slow to turn, and it's sure to turn the way you don't want it.
Surely one of the peculiar habits of circumstances is the way they follow, in their eternal recurrence, a single course. If an event happens once in a life, it may be depended upon to repeat later its general design.
But, of course only morons would ever think or speak of themselves as intellectuals. That's why they all look so sad.
Knowledge, like experience, is valid in fiction only after it has dissolved and filtered down through the imagination into reality.
a successful politician does not have convictions; he has emotions.
The transcendental point of view, the habit of thought bred by communion with earth and sky, had refined the grain while it had roughened the husk.
The world of the egotist is, inevitably, a narrow world, and the boundaries of self are limited to the close horizon of personality. . . . But, within this horizon, there is room for many attributes that are excellent.
The nearer she came to death, the more, by some perversity of nature, did she enjoy living.
What happens is not as important as how you react to what happens.
Yes, I learned long ago that the only satisfaction of authorship lies in finding the very few who understand what we mean. As for outside rewards, there is not one that I have ever discovered.
All change is not growth, as all movement is not forward.
It is lovely, when I forget all birthdays, including my own, to find that somebody remembers me.
I have little faith in the theory that organized killing is the best prelude to peace.
. . . I had grown up in a world that was dominated by immature age. Not by vigorous immaturity, but by immaturity that was old and tired and prudent, that loved ritual and rubric, and was utterly wanting in curiosity about the new and the strange. Its era has passed away, and the world it made has crumbled around us. Its finest creation, a code of manners, has been ridiculed and discarded.
Evidently, whatever else marriage might prevent, it was not a remedy for isolation of spirit.
I have written chiefly because, though I have often dreaded the necessity, I have found it more painful, in the end, not to write.
One cannot lay a foundation by scattering stones, nor is a reputation for good work to be got by strewing volumes about the world.
The attraction of horror is a mental, or even an intellectual, excitement, but the fascination of the repulsive, so noticeable incontemporary writing, can spring openly from some rotted substance within our civilization.
To teach one's self is to be forced to learn twice.
Apart from letters, it is the vulgar custom of the moment to deride the thinkers of the Victorian and Edwardian eras; yet there has not been, in all history, another agewhen so much sheer mental energy was directed toward creating a fairer social order.