Middlemarch, the magnificent book which with all its imperfections is one of the few English novels for grown-up people.

Life's bare as a bone.

The mind must be allowed to settle undisturbed over the object in order to secrete the pearl.

Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange.

Somewhere, everywhere, now hidden, now apparent in what ever is written down, is the form of a human being. If we seek to know him, are we idly occupied?

Most of a modest woman's life was spent, after all, in denying what, in one day at least of every year, was made obvious.

The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.