William Dean Howells
- We live, but a world has passed away
With the years that perished to make us men.
- The Mulberries (1871).
- The life of Christ, it wasn't only in healing the sick and going about to do good; it was suffering for the sins of others. That's as great a mystery as the mystery of death. Why should there be such a principle in the world? But it's been felt, and more or less dumbly, blindly recognized ever since Calvary. If we love mankind, pity them, we even wish to suffer for them. That's what has created the religious orders in all times--the brotherhoods and sisterhoods that belong to our day as much as to the mediaeval past. That's what is driving a girl like Margaret Vance, who has everything that the world can offer her young beauty, on to the work of a Sister of Charity among the poor and the dying.
- A Hazard Of New Fortunes, Ch. XI.
- Lord, for the erring thought
Not into evil wrought:
Lord, for the wicked will
Betrayed and baffled still:
For the heart from itself kept,
Our thanksgiving accept.
- A Thanksgiving.
- And before you know me gone
Eternity and I are one.
- Her mouth is a honey-blossom,
No doubt, as the poet sings;
But within her lips, the petals,
Lurks a cruel bee that stings.
- The Sarcastic Fair.
- He who sleeps in continual noise is wakened by silence [...]
- Pordenone, IV (1886).
- See how today's achievement is only tomorrow's confusion;
See how possession always cheapens the thing that was precious.
- Pordenone, IV.
- The wrecks of slavery are fast growing a fungus crop of sentiment.
- Their Wedding Journey (1872).
- The secret of the man who is universally interesting is that he is universally interested...
- The mortality of all inanimate things is terrible to me, but that of books most of all.
- Letter to Charles Eliot Norton (April 6, 1903).
- I am not sorry for having wrought in common, crude material so much; that is the right American stuff; and perhaps hereafter, when my din is done, if anyone is curious to know what that noise was, it will be found to have proceeded from a small insect which was scraping about on the surface of our life and trying to get into its meaning for the sake of the other insects larger or smaller. That is, such has been my unconscious work; consciously, I was always, as I still am, trying to fashion a piece of literature out of the life next at hand.
- Letter to Charles Eliot Norton (April 26, 1903).
- Clemens was sole, incomparable, the Lincoln of our literature.
- My Mark Twain (1910).
- "Yes, what the American public wants is a tragedy with a happy ending."
- An artistic atmosphere does not create artists a literary atmosphere does not create literators; poets and painters spring up where there was never a verse made or a picture seen. This suggests that God is no more idle now than He was at the beginning, but that He is still and forever shaping the human chaos into the instruments and means of beauty.
- My Literary Passions (1895).
- Christ and the life of Christ is at this moment inspiring the literature of the world as never before, and raising it up a witness against waste and want and war. It may confess Him, as in Tolstoi's work it does, or it may deny Him, but it cannot exclude Him; and in the degree that it ignores His spirit, modern literature is artistically inferior. In other words, all good literature is now Christmas literature.
- In Harper's New Monthly Magazine. Editor's Study. Christmas Literature, December 1888, p. 158-59, as quoted in An Imperative Duty, Appendix D, 7.
Quotes about HowellsEdit
- For forty years his English has been to me a continual delight and astonishment. In the sustained exhibition of certain great qualities—clearness, compression, verbal exactness, and unforced and seemingly unconscious felicity of phrasing—he is, in my belief, without his peer in the English-writing world. SUSTAINED. I entrench myself behind that protecting word. There are others who exhibit those great qualities as greatly as he does, but only by intervaled distributions of rich moonlight, with stretches of veiled and dimmer landscape between; whereas Howells's moon sails cloudless skies all night and all the nights.
In the matter of verbal exactness Mr. Howells has no superior, I suppose. He seems to be almost always able to find that elusive and shifty grain of gold, the RIGHT WORD. Others have to put up with approximations, more or less frequently; he has better luck.
...Mr. Howells has done much work, and the spirit of it is as beautiful as the make of it. I have held him in admiration and affection so many years that I know by the number of those years that he is old now; but his heart isn't, nor his pen; and years do not count. Let him have plenty of them; there is profit in them for us.