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The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.

"but what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope."

The Author is not Marching hidden in the Middle.

While Eliot is masterly in her execution, above and beyond that she also has a genius all of her own, about which I would say, perhaps one improves through reading these books, or perhaps these books have the power to make one sit up and take notice.

A book is made from a tree. It is an assemblage of flat, flexible parts (still called ‘leaves��) imprinted with dark pigmented squiggles. One glance at it and you hear the voice of another person—perhaps someone dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, the author is speaking, clearly and silently, inside your head, directly to you. (bold letters are mine)

The faults will not, I hope, be a reason for the withdrawal of your interest in him."

must not we, being impartial, feel with him a little?

We are most of us brought up in the notion that the highest motive for not doing a wrong is something irrespective of the beings who would suffer the wrong."

But Fielding lived when the days were longer (for time, like money is measured by our needs).... We belated historians must not linger after his example."

And here I am naturally led to reflect on the means of elevating a low subject.

…painting and Plastik are poor stuff after all. They perturb and dull conceptions instead of raising them. Language is a finer medium....Language gives a fuller image, which is all the better for being vague.. The true seeing is within; and painting stares at you with an insistent imperfection... as if a woman were a mere colored superficies.."