I swear from the bottom of my heart I want to be healed. I want to be like other men, not this outcast whom nobody wants.
Science is better than sympathy, if only it is science.
In time, Mr Hall, one gets to recognize that sneer, that hardness, for fornication extends far beyond the actual deed. Were it a deed only, I for one would not hold it anathema. But when the nations went a whoring they invariably ended by denying God...
The past is devoid of meaning like the present, and a refuge for cowards.
Why children?' he asked. 'Why always children? For love to end where it begins is far more beautiful, and Nature knows it.
Did you ever dream you had a friend, Alec? Someone to last your whole life and you his. I suppose such a thing can’t really happen outside sleep.
... And now we shan't be parted no more, and that's finished.
... I since cricket match do long to talk with one of my arms around you, then place both arms round you and share with you, the above now seems sweeter to me than words can say.
... and someone he scarcely knew moved towards him and knelt beside him and whispered, 'Sir, was you calling out for me? ... Sir, I know ... I know,' and touched him.
Maurice and Alec still roam the greenwood.
After all, is not a real Hell better than a manufactured Heaven?
Fed by neither Heaven nor by Earth he was going forward . . . He hadn't a God or a lover--the two usual incentives to virtue. But on he struggled with his back to ease, because dignity demanded it. There was no one to watch him, nor did he watch hims...
There was something better in life than this rubbish, if only he could get to it—love—nobility—big spaces where passion clasped peace, spaces no science could reach, but they existed for ever, full of woods some of them, and arched with majes...
I am an unspeakable of the Oscar Wilde sort.
It comes to this then: there always have been people like me and always will be, and generally they have been persecuted.
He was not sure, but liked it. It recurred when they met suddenly or had been silent. It beckoned to him across intellect, saying, "This is all very well, you're clever, we know—but come!" It haunted him so that he watched for it while his brain an...
But it was the stupidity of passion, which would rather have nothing than a little.
He never even thought of tenderness and emotion; his considerations about Durham remained cold. Durham didn't dislike him, he was sure. That was all he wanted. One thing at a time. He didn't so much as have hopes, for hope distracts, and he had a gre...
