Also she did not know that she had an uncle. She had
heard of nobody at all, except of George the First, of whom she had
heard (I know not why), and in whose historical memory she put her
simple trust. And by and by, in God's good time, it was discovered that
this uncle of hers was really not her uncle, and they came and told her
so. She smiled through her tears, and said only, "Virtue is its own
reward."--"The Napoleon of Notting Hill."
In a world without humour, the only thing to do is to eat. And how
perfect an exception! How can these people strike dignified attitudes,
and pretend that things matter, when the total ludicrousness of life is
proved by the very method by which it is supported? A man strikes the
lyre, and says, "Life is real, life is earnest," and then goes into a
room and stuffs alien substances into a hole in his head.--"The Napoleon
of Notting Hill."
[Sidenote: _G.K. Chesterton_]
A man must be orthodox upon most things, or he will never even have time
to preach his own heresy.--"George Bernard Shaw."
[Sidenote: _G.K. Chesterton_]
Only in our romantic country do you have the romantic thing called
weather--beautiful and changeable as a woman. The great English
landscape painters (neglected now, like everything that is English) have
this salient distinction, that the weather is not the atmosphere of
their pictures; it is the subject of their pictures.
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