All genius is at once a blessing or a curseDo what you feel you've got to do, and never mind what happensHad got unreasonably oldHow many sons have ever added to their father's fame?Never give up your soul to things only, keep it for peopleWe do what we forbid ourselves to doWe suffer the shames we damn in others
CARNAC'S FOLLY, by G. Parker, v3 [GP125][gp12510.txt]6198
Don't be a bigger fool than there's any need to beLife is only futile to the futileYouth's a dream, middle age a delusion, old age a mistake
CARNAC'S FOLLY, by Parker, Complete [GP126][gp12610.txt]6199
All genius is at once a blessing or a curseDo what you feel you've got to do, and never mind what happensDon't be a bigger fool than there's any need to beHad got unreasonably oldHow many sons have ever added to their father's fame?Life is only futile to the futileNever give up your soul to things only, keep it for peopleWe suffer the shames we damn in othersWe do what we forbid ourselves to doYouth's a dream, middle age a delusion, old age a mistake
THE PG WORKS OF GILBERT PARKER, COMPLETE [GP127][gp12710.txt]6200
A human life he held to be a trifle in the big sum of timeA heart-break for that kind is their salvationA man may be forgiven for a sin, but the effect remainsA look too bright for joy, too intense for despairA sort of chuckle not entirely pleasantA man you could bank on, and draw your interest reg'larA left-handed boy is all right in the worldA cloak of words to cover up the real thought behindAboriginal in all of us, who must have a sign for an emotionAboriginal dispersionAdaptability was his greatest weapon in lifeAdvantage to live where nothing was required of her but truthAfter which comes steady happiness or the devil to pay (wedding)Agony in thinking about the things we're never going to doAh, let it be soon! Ah, let him die soon!Air of certainty and universal comprehensionAll humour in him had a strain of the sardonicAll genius is at once a blessing or a curseAll the world's mad but thee and meAll men are worse than most womenAll is fair where all is foulAll he has to do is to be vague, and look prodigious (Scientist)All are hurt some timeAlways hoping the best from the worst of usAlways calling to something, for something outside ourselvesAn inner sorrow is a consuming fireAnd even envy praised herAnger was the least injurious of all grounds for separationAnswered, with the indifference of despairAntipathy of the lesser to the greater natureAntipathy of the man in the wrong to the man in the rightAs if our penalties were only paid by ourselves!At first—and at the last—he was kindAte some coffee-beans and drank some cold waterAudience that patronisingly listens outside a room or windowAwkward for your friends and gratifying to your enemiesBabbling covers a lot of secretsBad turns good sometimes, when you know the howBegin to see how near good is to evilBeginning of a lifetime of experience, comedy, and tragedyBeing tired you can sleep, and in sleep you can forgetBeing generous with other people's moneyBeing young, she exaggerated the importance of the eventBeing a man of very few ideas, he cherished those he hadBeneath it all there was a little touch of ridiculeBoldness without rashness, and hope without vain thinkingBut I don't think it is worth doing twiceBut to pay the vulgar penalty of prison—ah!But a wounded spirit who can bearBut the years go on, and friends have an endCame of a race who set great store by mothers and grandmothersCarrying with him the warm atmosphere of a good woman's loveCherish any alleviating lieClever men are tryingCling to beliefs long after conviction has been shatteredConfidence in a weak world gets unearned profit oftenConquest not important enough to satisfy ambitionCounsel of the overwise to go jolting through the soulCourage which awaits the worst the world can doCourage; without which, men are as the standing strawCredulity, easily transmutable into superstitionDamnable propinquityDangerous man, as all enthusiasts areDeath is not the worst of evilsDeath is a magnificent ally; it untangles knotsDelicate revenge which hath its hour with every manDid not let him think that she was giving up anything for himDo what you feel you've got to do, and never mind what happensDoes any human being know what he can bear of temptationDon't go at a fence till you're sure of your seatDon't be a bigger fool than there's any need to beDon't be too honestDown in her heart, loves to be masteredDuplicity, for which she might never have to ask forgivenessEach of us will prove himself a fool given perfect opportunityEgotism with which all are diseasedEgregious egotism of young love there are only two identitiesEngrossed more, it seemed, in the malady than in the manEnjoy his own generosityEven bad company's better than no company at allEvery true woman is a mother, though she have no childEvery man should have laws of his ownEvery shot that kills ricochetsEvil is half-accidental, half-naturalFace flushed with a sort of pleasurable defianceFascinating colour which makes evil appear to be goodFear a woman are when she hates, and when she lovesFear of one's own wife is the worst fear in the worldFlood came which sweeps away the rust that gathers in the eyesFollow me; if I retreat, kill me; if I fall, avenge meFor a man having work to do, woman, lovely woman, is rocksFreedom is the first essential of the artistic mindFrenchman, volatile, moody, chivalrous, unreasonableFrenchman, slave of ideas, the victim of sentimentFriendship means a giving and a gettingFutility of goodness, the futility of allFuture of those who will not see, because to see is to sufferGood fathers think they have good daughtersGood is often an occasion more than a conditionGood thing for a man himself to be owed kindnessGrove of pines to give a sense of warmth in winterGrow more intense, more convinced, more thorough, as they talkHad the luck together, all kinds and all weathersHad the slight flavour of the superior and the paternalHad got unreasonably oldHave not we all something to hide—with or without shame?Have you ever felt the hand of your own child in yoursHe had neither self-consciousness nor fearHe admired, yet he wished to be admiredHe hated irony in anyone elseHe was not always sorry when his teasing hurtHe felt things, he did not study themHe was in fact not a philosopher, but a sentimentalistHe had only made of his wife an incident in his lifeHe didn't always side with the majorityHe does not love Pierre; but he does not pretend to love himHe was strong enough to admit ignoranceHe has wheeled his nuptial bed into the streetHe had had acquaintances, but never friendships, and never lovesHe had no instinct for vice in the name of amusementHe left his fellow-citizens very much aloneHe never saw an insult unless he intended to avenge itHe had tasted freedom; he was near to licenseHe borrowed no troubleHe wishes to be rude to some one, and is disappointedHe's a barber-shop philosopherHeaven where wives without number awaited himHer sight was bounded by the little field where she strayedHer voice had the steadiness of despairHer stronger soul ruled him without his knowledgeHer own suffering always set her laughing at herselfHighsterics, they call itHis courtesy was not on the same expansive level as his vanityHis duties were many, or he made them soHis gift for lying was inexpressibleHonesty was a thing he greatly desired—in othersHow little we can know to-day what we shall feel tomorrowHow can one force one's heart? No, no! One has to waitHow many sons have ever added to their father's fame?How many conquests have been made in the name of GodHow can you judge the facts if you don't know the feeling?Hugging the chain of denial to his bosomHunger for happiness is robberyI love that love in which I married himI was never good at catechismI said I was not falling in love—I am in loveI am only myself when I am drunkI have a good memory for forgettingI don't wish to fit in; things must fit meI like when I like, and I like a lot when I likeI always did what was wrong, and liked it—nearly alwaysI should remember to forget itI don't believe in walking just for the sake of walkingI don't think. I'm old enough to knowI can't pay you for your kindness to me, and I don't want toI had to listen to him, and he had to pay me for listeningI was born insolentI—couldn't help itIf you have a good thought, act on itIf one remembers, why should the other forgetIf women hadn't memory, she answered, they wouldn't have muchIf fumbling human fingers do not meddle with itIllusive hopes and irresponsible deceptionsImagination is at the root of much that passes for loveImportunity with discretion was his mottoIn all secrets there is a kind of guiltIn her heart she never can defy the world as does a manInclined to resent his own insignificanceInstinct for detecting veracity, having practised on both sidesInterfere with people who had a trade and didn't understand itIrishmen have gifts for only two things—words and womenIs the habit of good living mere habit and mere actingIt is hard to be polite to cowardsIt is not Justice that fills the gaols, but LawIt is not the broken heart that kills, but broken prideIt is good to live, isn't it?It is difficult to be idle—and important tooIt is not much to kill or to die—that is in the gameIt isn't what they do, it's what they don't doIt ain't for us to say what we're goin' to be, not alwaysIt is easy to repent when our pleasures have palledIt's the people who try to be clever who never areIt's no good simply going—you've got to go somewhereJews everywhere treated worse than the ChinamanJoy of a confessional which relieves the sick heartKissed her twice on the cheek—the first time in fifteen yearsKnew the lie of silence to be as evil as the lie of speechKnew when to shut his eyes, and when to keep them openKnow how bad are you, and doesn't mindKnowing that his face would never be turned from meLacks a balance-wheel. He has brains, but not enoughLaw. It is expensive whether you win or loseLearned what fools we mortals beLearned, as we all must learn, that we live our dark hour aloneLet others ride to glory, I'll shoe their horses for the gallopLiars all men may be, but that's wid wimmin or landlordsLife is only futile to the futileLighted candles in hollowed pumpkinsLikenesses between the perfectly human and the perfectly animalLilt of existence lulling to sleep wisdom and tried experienceLiquor makes me humanLive and let live is doing goodLonely we come into the world, and lonely we go out of itLonged to touch, oftener than they did, the hands of childrenLose their heads, and be so absurdly earnestLove can outlive slanderLove, too, is a game, and needs playingLove knows not distance; it hath no continentLove has nothing to do with ugliness or beauty, or fortuneLyrical in his enthusiasmsMan who tells the story in a new way, that is geniusMan grows old only by what he suffers, and what he forgivesMan or woman must not expect too much out of lifeMay be more beautiful in uncertain England than anywhere elseMeditation is the enemy of actionMemory is man's greatest friend and worst enemyMen and women are unwittingly their own executionersMen feel surer of women than women feel of menMen do not steal up here: that is the unpardonable crimeMen must have their bad hours aloneMen are like dogs—they worship him who beats themMen are shy with each other where their emotions are in playMiseries of this world are caused by forcing issuesMissed being a genius by an inchMonotonously intelligentMore idle than wickedMost honest thing I ever heard, but it's not the most truthfulMost important lessons of life—never to quarrel with a womanMothers always forgiveMy excuses were making bad infernally worseMystery is dear to a woman's heartNature twists in back, or anywhere, gets a twist in's brain tooNervous legs at a gallopNever believed that when man or woman said no that no was meantNever looked to get an immense amount of happiness out of lifeNever to be content with superficial reasons and the obviousNever give up your soul to things only, keep it for peopleNo note of praise could be pitched too high for ElizabethNo, I'm not good—I'm only beautifulNo news—no troubleNo virtue in not falling, when you're not temptedNo past that is hidden has ever been a happy pastNo man so simply sincere, or so extraordinarily prejudicedNoise is not battleNot good to have one thing in the head all the timeNot content to do even the smallest thing illNot to show surprise at anythingNothing so good as courage, nothing so base as the shifting eyeNothing is futile that is rightNothing so popular for the moment as the fall of a favouriteOf those who hypnotize themselves, who glow with self-creationOf course I've hated, or I wouldn't be worth a buttonOften called an invention of the devil (Violin)Often, we would rather be hurt than hurtOne does the work and another gets paidOne always buys back the past at a tremendous priceOne doesn't choose to worryOne favour is always the promise of anotherOnly the supremely wise or the deeply ignorant who never alterOriental would think not less of him for dissimulationParadoxes which make for laughter—and for tearsPassion to forget themselvesPathetically in earnestPeople who are clever never think of trying to bePhilosophers are often stupid in human affairsPhilosophy which could separate the petty from the prodigiousPolitical virtue goes unrewardedPrepared for a kiss this hour and a reproach the nextPreserved a marked unconsciousnessProtest that it is right when it knows that it is wrongPut the matter on your own hearthstoneQueer that things which hurt most can't be punished by lawRack of secrecy, the cruelest inquisition of lifeReading a lot and forgetting everythingReconciling the preacher and the sinner, as many another hasReligion to him was a dull recreation invented chiefly for womenRemember the sorrow of thine own wifeRemember your own sins before you charge othersRewarded for its mistakesRomance is an incident to a manSacrifice to the god of the pin-holeSardonic pleasure in the miseries of the worldSaw how futile was much competitionSaying uncomfortable things in a deferential wayScoundrel, too weak to face the consequences of his sinSecret of life: to keep your own commandmentsSelf-will, self-pride, and self-righteousness were big in himShe lacked sense a little and sensitiveness muchShe was not to be forced to answer his arguments directlyShe knew what to say and what to leave unsaidShe was beginning to understand that evil is not absoluteShe valued what others found uselessShe wasn't young, but she seemed soShe had not suffered that sickness, social artificeShe had provoked love, but had never given itShe had never stooped to conquerShould not make our own personal experience a law unto the worldShure, if we could always be 'about the same,' we'd doSimply to have death renewed every morningSlander ever scorches where it touchesSlow-footed hours wandered by, leaving apathy in their trainSmiling was part of his equipmentSo say your prayers, believe all you can, don't ask questionsSolitude fixes our hearts immovably on thingsSome people are rough with the poor—and proudSome wise men are fools, one way or anotherSome are hurt in one way and some in anotherSometimes the longest way round is the shortest way homeSoul tortured through different degrees of misunderstandingSpurting out little geysers of other people's cheap wisdomStill the end of your existence, I rejoined—to be amused?Strike first and heal after—"a kick and a lick"Struggle of conscience and expediencySurely she might weep a little for herselfSuspicion, the bane of sick old ageSympathy, with curiousness in their eyes and as much inhumanitySympathy and consolation might be much misplacedThanked him in her heart for the things he had left unsaidThat anxious civility which beauty can inspireThat iceberg which most mourners carry in their breastsThat he will find the room empty where I am notThe Government cherish the Injin much in these daysThe Injin speaks the truth, perhaps—eye of red man multipiesThe blind tyranny of the justThe soul of goodness in things evilThe higher we go the faster we liveThe gods made last to humble the pride of men—there was rumThe world never welcomes its desertersThe furious music of death and war was overThe tender care of a woman—than many pharmacopoeiasThe beginning of the end of things was come for himThe ravings of a sick man are not always counted ravingsThe friendship of man is like the shade of the acaciaThe sea is a great breeder of friendshipThe vague pain of suffered indifferenceThe soul is a great travellerThe happy scene of the play before the villain comes inThe threshold of an acknowledged loveThe Barracks of the FreeThe real business of life is trying to understand each otherThe world is not so bad as is claimed for itThe temerity and nonchalance of despairThere is nothing so tragic as the formalThere are things we repent of which cannot be repairedThere is something humiliating in even an undeserved injuryThere should be written the one word, "Wait"There is no refuge from memory and remorse in this worldThere was never a grey wind but there's a greyerThere is no influence like the influence of habitThere is no habit so powerful as the habit of care of othersThere's no credit in not doing what you don't want to doThese little pieces of art make life possibleThey think that if a vote's worth having it's worth paying forThey whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suffer greatlyThings in life git stronger than we areThings that once charmed charm lessThink with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one womanThink that a woman gives the heart for pleasant weather only?Think of our positionThou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heartTime when she should and when she should not be wooedTime is the test, and Time will have its way with meTime a woman most yearns for a man is when she has refused himTo die without whiningTo be popular is not necessarily to be contemptibleTo sorrow may their humour be a foilTo-morrow is no man's giftTouch of the fantastic, of the barbaric, in all geniusTraining in the charms of superficialityTricks played by Fact to discredit the imaginationTriumph of Oriental duplicity over Western civilisationTruth waits long, but whips hardTyranny of the little man, given a powerUndisciplined generosityUntamed by the normal restraints of a happy married lifeUses up your misery and makes you tired (Work)Vanity is the bane of mankindVanity of successful labourVanity; and from this much feminine hatred springsVery severe on those who do not pretend to be goodVisions of the artistic temperament—delight and curseWar is cruelty, and none can make it gentleWas not civilisation a mistakeWe don't live in months and years, but just in minutesWe want to get more out of life than there really is in itWe want every land to do as we do; and we want to make 'em do itWe grow away from people against our willWe are only children till we begin to make our dreams our lifeWe care so little for real justiceWe do what we forbid ourselves to doWe suffer the shames we damn in othersWe must live our dark hours aloneWe speak with the straight tongue; it is cowards who lieWe'll lave the past behind usWhat fools there are in the worldWhat is gone is gone. Graves are idolatryWhat is crime in one country, is virtue in anotherWhat a nice mob you press fellows are—wholesale scavengersWhat'll be the differ a hundred years from nowWhatever has been was a dream; whatever is now is realWhen a child is born the mother also is born againWhen you strike your camp, put out the firesWhen God permits, shall man despair?When a man laugh in the sun and think nothing of evilWhere the light is darknessWhere I should never hear the voice of the social Thou mustWho knows!Who can understand a woman?Who get a morbid enjoyment out of miseryWho say 'God bless you' in New York! They say 'Damn you!'Who never knew self-consciousnessWit is always at the elbow of wantWithout the money brains seldom win aloneWoman's deepest right and joy and pain in one—to comfortWomen only admitted to Heaven by the intercession of husbandsWomen are half saints, half foolsWomen may leave you in the bright daysWomen don't go by evidence, but by their feelingsWorld was only the size of four walls to a sick personWorth while to have lived so long and to have seen so muchWould look back and not remember that she had a childhoodYou went north towards heaven and south towards hellYou have lost your illusionsYou never can really overtake a newspaper lieYou can't take time as the measure of lifeYou cannot live long enough to atone for that impertinenceYou do not shout dinner till you have your knife in the loafYou never can make a scandal less by trying to hide itYou've got blind rashness, and so you think you're boldYou've got to be ready, that's allYou—you all were so ready to suspectYouth hungers for the vanitiesYouth is the only comrade for youthYouth's a dream, middle age a delusion, old age a mistake