There is a point in every philosophy at which the "conviction" of the philosopher appears on the scene; or, to put it in the words of an ancient mystery: adventavit asinus, / pulcher et fortissimus. (Translation: The ass arrives, beautiful and most brave.)

Leonidas’s and Dienekes’ quips draw the individual out of his private terror and yoke him to the group.

Many writers do little else but sit in small rooms recalling the real world.

Could there be a slenderer, more insignificant thread in human history than this consciousness of a girl, busy with her small inferences of the way in which she could make her life pleasant?

Written By George Eliot

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