Personal relations are the important thing for ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and anger.
E. M. ForsterRead
To trust people is a luxury in which only the wealthy can indulge; the poor cannot afford it.
Interpretation
Trusting others is often seen as a privilege that those with financial stability can afford, while those in poverty may feel they must be more cautious.
E. M. Forster's quote explores the idea that trust is not merely a personal choice but can also be influenced by one's socio-economic status. The wealthy often have the resources and security to trust others without fear of significant loss, whereas those who are financially struggling may feel they cannot afford the vulnerability that comes with trust, as betrayal could lead to greater hardship.
In practice
In a discussion about financial challenges, one might quote Forster to highlight how trust can be a privilege.
Personal relations are the important thing for ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and anger.
A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.
One must be fond of people and trust them if one is not to make a mess of life.
Oxford is Oxford: not a mere receptacle for youth, like Cambridge. Perhaps it wants its inmates to love it rather than to love one another.
The fact is we can only love what we know personally. And we cannot know much. In public affairs, in the rebuilding of civilization, something less dramatic and emotional is needed, namely tolerance.
One person with passion is better than forty people merely interested.
It's frightening when things you love appear suddenly changed from what you have always known.
Are you learning me by heart, little Sara?" he said, stroking her hair. "No," she answered. "I know you by heart. You are inside my heart.
People come, people go β theyβll drift in and out of your life, almost like characters in a favorite book. When you finally close the cover, the characters have told their story and you start up again with another book, complete with new characters and adventures. Then you find yourself focusing on the new ones, not the ones from the past.
The people in this house, I felt, and I included myself, were like characters each from a different grim and gruesome fairy tale. None of us was in the same story. We were all grotesques, and self-riveted, but in separate narratives, and so our interactions seemed weird and richly meaningless, like the characters in a Tennessee Williams play, with their bursting unimportant, but spell-bindingly mad speeches.
I think it's easy to mistake understanding for empathy - we want empathy so badly. Maybe learning to make that distinction is part of growing up. It's hard and ugly to know somebody can understand you without even liking you.
Sex without love is as hollow and ridiculous as love without sex.
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