Now we shan’t never be parted. It’s finished.


The second dream is more difficult to convey. Nothing happened. He scarcely saw a face, scarcely heard a voice say, ‘That is your friend,’ and then it was over, having filled him with beauty and taught him tenderness. He could die for such a friend, he would allow such a friend to die for him, they would make any sacrifice for each other, and count the world nothing, neither death nor distance nor crossness could part them, because ‘this is my friend.’ — E.M. Forster, Maurice (via lapetitesinge)
He went in and found his lover asleep. Alec lay upon piled up cushions, just visible in the last dying of the day. When he woke he did not seem excited or disturbed and fondled Maurice’s arm between his hands before he spoke. ‘So you got the wire,’ he said.
‘What wire?’
‘The wire I sent off this morning to your house, telling you …’ He yawned, ‘Excuse me, I’m a bit tired, one thing and another … telling you to come here without fail.’ And since Maurice did not speak, indeed could not, he added, ‘And now we shan’t be parted no more, and that’s finished.’
E.M. Forster, Maurice (Macmillan Company of Canada, 1971) 225. (via chipclayton)

Slightly obsessed.


Slightly obsessed.

There was something better in life than this rubbish, if only he could get to it - love - nobility - big spaces where passion clasped peace, spaces no science could reach, but they existed for ever, full of woods some of them, and arched with majestic sky and a friend… Maurice by E.M. Forster (via thisisvulgar)
Belief’s always right. It’s all right and it’s also unmistakeable. Every man gas somewhere about him some belief for which he’d die. Only isn’t it improbable that your parents and guardians told it to you? If there is one won’t it be part of your own flesh and spirit? Show me that. Maurice, E.M. Forster (via theedgeofnight)
The only permanence that is not a theory but a fact is death. — E.M. Forster, Letter to Lowes Dickinson, 13 December 1914 (via chipclayton)
As he rose in the school he began to make a religion of some other boy. When this boy, whether older or younger than himself, was present, he would laugh loudly, talk absurdly and be unable to work. He dared not to be kind— it was not the thing— still less to express his admiration in words. And the adored one would shake him off before long, and reduce him to sulks. — Excerpt from “Maurice” by E.M. Forster (via sukumeru)

(via butterscotchprince-deactivated2)