THE WORKS OF JOHN GALSWORTHY

Attack his fleas—though he was supposed
to have none

Dogs: with rudiments of altruism and a sense
of God

Don't hurt others more than is absolutely
necessary

Early morning does not mince words

Era which had canonised hypocrisy

Forgiven me; but she could never forget

Health—He did not want it at such cost

Is anything more pathetic than the faith
of the young?

Law takes a low view of human nature

Let her come to me as she will, when she will,
not at all if she will not

Love has no age, no limit; and no death

Never to see yourself as others see you

Old men learn to forego their whims

People who don't live are wonderfully
preserved

Perching-place; never—never her cage!

Putting up a brave show of being natural

Socialists: they want our goods

Thank you for that good lie

To seem to be respectable was to be

You have to buy experience

COURAGE

COURAGE Is but a word, and yet, of words,
The only sentinel of permanence;
The ruddy watch-fire of cold winter days,
We steal its comfort, lift our weary swords,
And on. For faith—without it—has no sense;
And love to wind of doubt and tremor sways;
And life for ever quaking marsh must tread.

Laws give it not; before it prayer will blush;
Hope has it not; nor pride of being true;
'Tis the mysterious soul which never yields,
But hales us on and on to breast the rush
Of all the fortunes we shall happen through.
And when Death calls across his shadowy fields—
Dying, it answers: "Here! I am not dead!"

SOME FAVORITE PASSAGES

The simple truth, which underlies the whole story, that
where sex attraction is utterly and definitely lacking in
one partner to a union, no amount of pity, or reason, or
duty, or what not, can overcome a repulsion implicit in
Nature.

The tragedy of whose life is the very simple, uncontrollable
tragedy of being unlovable, without quite a thick enough
skin to be thoroughly unconscious of the fact.  Not even
Fleur loves Soames as he feels he ought to be loved.  But in
pitying Soames, readers incline, perhaps, to animus against
Irene: After all, they think, he wasn't a bad fellow, it
wasn't his fault; she ought to have forgiven him, and so on!

"Let the dead Past bury its dead" would be a better saying
if the Past ever died.  The persistence of the Past is one
of those tragi-comic blessings which each new age denies,
coming cocksure on to the stage to mouth its claim to a
perfect novelty.

The figure of Irene, never, as the reader may possibly have
observed, present, except through the senses of other
characters, is a concretion of disturbing Beauty impinging
on a possessive world.

She turned back into the drawing-room; but in a minute came
out, and stood as if listening.  Then she came stealing up
the stairs, with a kitten in her arms.  He could see her
face bent over the little beast, which was purring against
her neck.  Why couldn't she look at him like that?

But though the impingement of Beauty and the claims of
Freedom on a possessive world are the main prepossessions of
the Forsyte Saga, it cannot be absolved from the charge of
embalming the upper-middle class.

When a Forsyte was engaged, married, or born, the Forsytes
were present; when a Forsyte died—but no Forsyte had
as yet died; they did not die; death being contrary to their
principles, they took precautions against it, the
instinctive precautions of highly vitalized persons who
resent encroachments on their property.

"It's my opinion," he said unexpectedly, "that it's just as
well as it is."

The eldest by some years of all the Forsytes, she held a
peculiar position amongst them.  Opportunists and egotists
one and all—though not, indeed, more so than their
neighbours—they quailed before her incorruptible
figure, and, when opportunities were too strong, what could
they do but avoid her!

"I'm bad," he said, pouting—"been bad all the week;
don't sleep at night.  The doctor can't tell why.  He's a
clever fellow, or I shouldn't have him, but I get nothing
out of him but bills."

There was little sentimentality about the Forsytes.  In that
great London, which they had conquered and become merged in,
what time had they to be sentimental?

A moment passed, and young Jolyon, turning on his heel,
marched out at the door.  He could hardly see; his smile
quavered.  Never in all the fifteen years since he had first
found out that life was no simple business, had he found it
so singularly complicated.

As in all self-respecting families, an emporium had been
established where family secrets were bartered, and family
stock priced.  It was known on Forsyte 'Change that Irene
regretted her marriage.  Her regret was disapproved of.  She
ought to have known her own mind; no dependable woman made
these mistakes.

Out of his other property, out of all the things he had
collected, his silver, his pictures, his houses, his
investments, he got a secret and intimate feeling; out of
her he got none.

Of all those whom this strange rumour about Bosinney and
Mrs. Soames reached, James was the most affected.  He had
long forgotten how he had hovered, lanky and pale, in side
whiskers of chestnut hue, round Emily, in the days of his
own courtship.  He had long forgotten the small house in the
purlieus of Mayfair, where he had spent the early days of
his married life, or rather, he had long forgotten the early
days, not the small house,—a Forsyte never forgot a
house—he had afterwards sold it at a clear profit of
four hundred pounds.

And those countless Forsytes, who, in the course of
innumerable transactions concerned with property of all
sorts (from wives to water rights)....

"I now move, 'That the report and accounts for the year 1886
be received and adopted.'  You second that?  Those in favour
signify the same in the usual way.  Contrary—no.
Carried.  The next business, gentlemen...." Soames smiled.
Certainly Uncle Jolyon had a way with him!

Forces regardless of family or class or custom were beating
down his guard; impending events over which he had no
control threw their shadows on his head.  The irritation of
one accustomed to have his way was, roused against he knew
not what.

"We are, of course, all of us the slaves of property, and I
admit that it's a question of degree, but what I call a
'Forsyte' is a man who is decidedly more than less a slave
of property.  He knows a good thing, he knows a safe thing,
and his grip on property—it doesn't matter whether it
be wives, houses, money, or reputation—is his hall-
mark."—"Ah!" murmured Bosinney.  "You should patent
the word."—"I should like," said young Jolyon, "to
lecture on it: 'Properties and quality of a Forsyte': This
little animal, disturbed by the ridicule of his own sort, is
unaffected in his motions by the laughter of strange
creatures (you or I).  Hereditarily disposed to myopia, he
recognises only the persons of his own species, amongst
which he passes an existence of competitive tranquillity."

"My people," replied young Jolyon, "are not very extreme,
and they have their own private peculiarities, like every
other family, but they possess in a remarkable degree those
two qualities which are the real tests of a
Forsyte—the power of never being able to give yourself
up to anything soul and body, and the 'sense of property'."

An unhappy marriage!  No ill-treatment—only that
indefinable malaise, that terrible blight which killed all
sweetness under Heaven; and so from day to day, from night
to night, from week to week, from year to year, till death
should end it.

The more I see of people the more I am convinced that they
are never good or bad—merely comic, or pathetic.  You
probably don't agree with me!'

"Don't touch me!" she cried.  He caught her wrist; she
wrenched it away. "And where may you have been?" he asked.
"In heaven—out of this house!" With those words she
fled upstairs.

It seemed to young Jolyon that he could hear her saying:
"But, darling, it would ruin you!"  For he himself had
experienced to the full the gnawing fear at the bottom of
each woman's heart that she is a drag on the man she loves.

She had come back like an animal wounded to death, not
knowing where to turn, not knowing what she was doing.

"What do you mean by God?" he said; "there are two
irreconcilable ideas of God.  There's the Unknowable
Creative Principle—one believes in That. And there's
the Sum of altruism in man naturally one believes in That."

She was such a decided mortal; knew her own mind so terribly
well; wanted things so inexorably until she got
them—and then, indeed, often dropped them like a hot
potato.  Her mother had been like that, whence had come all
those tears.  Not that his  incompatibility with his
daughter was anything like what it had been with the first
Mrs. Young Jolyon. One could be amused where a daughter was
concerned; in a wife's case one could not be amused.

"Thank you for that good lie."

Love has no age, no limit; and no death.

Did Nature permit a Forsyte not to make a slave of what he
adored?  Could beauty be confided to him?  Or should she not
be just a visitor, coming when she would, possessed for
moments which passed, to return only at her own choosing?
'We are a breed of spoilers!' thought Jolyon, 'close and
greedy; the bloom of life is not safe with us.  Let her come
to me as she will, when she will, not at all if she will
not.  Let me be just her stand-by, her perching-place;
never-never her cage!'

....causing the animal to wake and attack his fleas; for
though he was supposed to have none, nothing could persuade
him of the fact.

"It's always worth while before you do anything to consider
whether it's going to hurt another person more than is
absolutely necessary."

EXCERPTS FROM THE FORSYTE SAGA

A thing slipped between him and all previous knowledge

Afraid of being afraid

Afraid to show emotion before his son

Always wanted more than he could have

Aromatic spirituality

As she will, when she will, not at all if she will not

Attack his fleas; for though he was supposed to have none

Avoided expression of all unfashionable emotion

Back of beauty was harmony

Back of harmony was—union

Beauty is the devil, when you're sensitive to it!

Blessed capacity of living again in the young

But it tired him and he was glad to sit down

But the thistledown was still as death

By the cigars they smoke, and the composers they love

Change—for there never was any—always upset her very much

Charm; and the quieter it was, the more he liked it

Compassion was checked by the tone of that close voice

Conceived for that law a bitter distaste

Conscious beauty

Detached and brotherly attitude towards his own son

Did not mean to try and get out of it by vulgar explanation

Did not want to be told of an infirmity

Dislike of humbug

Dogs: with rudiments of altruism and a sense of God

Don't care whether we're right or wrong

Don't hurt others more than is absolutely necessary

Early morning does not mince words

Era which had canonised hypocrisy

Evening not conspicuous for open-heartedness

Everything in life he wanted—except a little more breath

Fatigued by the insensitive, he avoided fatiguing others

Felt nearly young

Forgiven me; but she could never forget

Forsytes always bat

Free will was the strength of any tie, and not its weakness

Get something out of everything you do

Greater expense can be incurred for less result than anywhere

Hard-mouthed women who laid down the law

He could not plead with her; even an old man has his dignity

He saw himself reflected: An old-looking chap

Health—He did not want it at such cost

Horses were very uncertain

I have come to an end; if you want me, here I am

I never stop anyone from doing anything

I shan't marry a good man, Auntie, they're so dull!

If not her lover in deed he was in desire

Importance of mundane matters became increasingly grave

Intolerable to be squeezed out slowly, without a say yourself

Ironical, which is fatal to expansiveness

Ironically mistrustful

Is anything more pathetic than the faith of the young?

It was their great distraction: To wait!

Know how not to grasp and destroy!

Law takes a low view of human nature

Let her come to me as she will, when she will

Little notion of how to butter her bread

Living on his capital

Longing to escape in generalities beset him

Love has no age, no limit; and no death

Man had money, he was free in law and fact

Ministered to his daughter's love of domination

More spiritual enjoyment of his coffee and cigar

Never give himself away

Never seemed to have occasion for verbal confidences

Never since had any real regard for conventional morality

Never to see yourself as others see you

No money! What fate could compare with that?

None of them quite knew what she meant

None of us—none of us can hold on for ever!

Not going to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds

Nothing left to do but enjoy beauty from afar off

Nothing overmastering in his feeling

Old men learn to forego their whims

One cannot see the havoc oneself is working

One could break away into irony—as indeed he often had to

One who has never known a struggle with desperation

One's never had enough

Only aversion lasts

Only Time was good for sorrow

Own feelings were not always what mattered most

People who don't live are wonderfully preserved

Perching-place; never-never her cage!

Philosophy of one on whom the world had turned its back

Pity, they said, was akin to love!

Preferred to concentrate on the ownership of themselves

Putting up a brave show of being natural

Quiet possession of his own property

Quivering which comes when a man has received a deadly insult

Self-consciousness is a handicap

Selfishness of age had not set its proper grip on him

Sense of justice stifled condemnation

Servants knew everything, and suspected the rest

Shall not expect this time more than I can get, or she can give

She used to expect me to say it more often  than I felt it

Sideways look which had reduced many to silence in its time

Smiled because he could have cried

So difficult to be sorry for him

'So we go out!' he thought 'No more beauty! Nothing?'

Socialists: they want our goods

Sorrowful pleasure

Spirit of the future, with the charm of the unknown

Striking horror of the moral attitude

Sum of altruism in man

Surprised that he could have had so paltry an idea

Tenderness to the young

Thank you for that good lie

Thanks awfully

That dog was a good dog

The Queen—God bless her!

The soundless footsteps on the grass!

There was no one in any sort of authority to notice him

There went the past!

To seem to be respectable was to be

Too afraid of committing himself in any direction

Trees take little account of time

Unfeeling process of legal regulation

Unknowable Creative Principle

Unlikely to benefit its beneficiaries

Wanted things so inexorably until she got them

Waves of sweetness and regret flooded his soul

Weighing you to the ground with care and love

Went out as if afraid of being answered

What do you mean by God?

When you fleece you're sorry

When you're fleeced you're sick

Where Beauty was, nothing ever ran quite straight

Whole world was in conspiracy to limit freedom

With the wisdom of a long life old JoIyon did not speak

Witticism of which he was not the author was hardly to his taste

Wonderful finality about a meal

You have to buy experience

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These quotations were collected from a few of the works of John Galsworthy by David Widger while preparing etexts for Project Gutenberg. Comments and suggestions will be most welcome.