Nobody holds a good opinion of a man who has a low opinion of himself.
Anthony TrollopeRead
Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell.
Interpretation
Romantic ideals are often more appealing in fiction than in reality, where true experiences can be bittersweet.
In this quote, Anthony Trollope reflects on the nature of romance in literature versus real life. While romantic tales can be enchanting in novels, the actual experiences of love and life often come with sorrow and complexity, suggesting that those who live without dramatic stories may find true happiness. This perspective invites readers to appreciate the simplicity of life over the embellished narratives found in stories.
In practice
In a speech about the contrast between literature and life experiences.
Nobody holds a good opinion of a man who has a low opinion of himself.
There is no happiness in love, except at the end of an English novel.
That I can read and be happy while I am reading, is a great blessing.
A man's love, till it has been chastened and fastened by the feeling of duty which marriage brings with it, is instigated mainly by the difficulty of pursuit.
But she knew this,βthat it was necessary for her happiness that she should devote herself to some one. All the elegancies and outward charms of life were delightful, if only they could be used as the means to some end. As an end themselves they were nothing.
Nothing surely is as potent as a law that may not be disobeyed. It has the force of the water drop that hollows the stone. A small dainty task, if it be really daily, will beat the labours of a spasmodic Hercules.
In prison, I fell in love with my country. I had loved her before then, but like most young people, my affection was little more than a simple appreciation for the comforts and privileges most Americans enjoyed and took for granted. It wasn't until I had lost America for a time that I realized how much I loved her.
Tis better to have love and lust Than to let our apparatus rust.
She was a mischief, and that was a satisfaction; no longer was she a huntress of corralled game
When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself.
The number 143 means 'I love you.' It takes one letter to say 'I' and four letters to say 'love' and three letters to say 'you.' One hundred and forty-three. 'I love you.' Isn't that wonderful?
I would have done anything for him. Maybe that was my sickness. We made love in nothing places and turned the lights off. It felt like crying. We could not look at each other. It always had to be from behind. Like that first time. And I knew he wasn't thinking of me. He squeezed my sides so hard, and pushed so hard. Like he was trying to push me through to somewhere else. Why does anyone ever make love?
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