Quotes About Comparison

When anybody says 'How future ages will envy me', it is safe to say that they are extremely uneasy at the present moment.

but it was their relation, and his coming to her like that, openly, so that anyone could see, that discomposed her; for then people said he depended on her, when they must know that of the two he was infinitely the more important, and what she gave the world, in comparison with what he gave, negligible.

there were masses of pictures she had not seen; however, Lily Briscoe reflected, perhaps it was better not to see pictures: they only made one hopelessly discontented with one's own work.

Thank God, Helen, I'm not like you! I sometimes think you don't think or feel or care to do anything but exist! You're like Mr. Hirst. You see that things are bad, and you pride yourself on saying so. It's what you call being honest; as a matter of fact it's being lazy, being dull, being nothing. You don't help; you put an end to things.

The very reason why the poetry excites one to such abandonment, such rapture, is that it celebrates some feeling that one used to have (at luncheon parties before the war perhaps), so that one responds easily, familiarly, without troubling to check the feeling, or to compare it with any that one has now.

Then there's Queen Victoria, like a large tea cosy, & Wellington, sleek as a mastiff with paw extended . . .

her generation of novelists, including Forster, Lawrence, and Joyce, from their Edwardian predecessors, Bennett, Galsworthy, and Wells.

Mrs. Ramsay did in her own heart infinitely prefer boobies to clever men who wrote dissertations.

People were beginning to compare her to poplar trees, early dawn, hyacinths, fawns, running water, and garden lilies, and it made her life a burden to her, for she so much preferred being left alone to do what she liked in the country, but they would compare her to lilies, and she had to go to parties, and London was so dreary compared with being alone in the country with her father and the dogs.

The very reason why that poetry excites one to such abandonment, such rapture, is that it celebrates some feeling that one used to have (at luncheon parties before the war perhaps), so that one responds easily, familiarly, without troubling to check the feeling, or to compare it with any that one has now.

Charlotte Brontë, with all her splendid gift for prose, stumbled and fell with that clumsy weapon in her hands. George Eliot committed atrocities with it that beggar description. Jane Austen looked at it and laughed at it and devised a perfectly natural, shapely sentence proper for her own use and never departed from it. Thus, with less genius for writing than Charlotte Brontë, she got infinitely more said.

There they hang in the mind the shapes of the books we have read solidified by the judgments we have passed on them — Robinson Crusoe , Emma , The Return of the Native . Compare the novels with these – even the latest and least of novels has a right to be judged with the best.

It's a pity one can't imagine what one can't compare to anything. Genius is an African who dreams up snow.

How small the cosmos (a kangaroo's pouch would hold it), how paltry and puny in comparison to human consciousness, to a single individual recollection, and its expression in words!

Resemblances are the shadows of differences. Different people see different similarities and similar differences.

Light in comparison with darkness is a void.

The spiritual and the physical had been blended in us with a perfection that must remain incomprehensible to the matter-of-fact, crude, standard-brained youngsters of today. Long after her death I felt her thoughts floating through mine. Long before we met we had had the same dreams. We compared notes. We found strange affinities.

focus, divergence, and a compelling tagline. Cirque du Soleil's strategy canvas allows us to graphically compare its strategic profile with those of its major competitors.

Is it better because Europeans are better, nobler, greater, and more gifted than other folk? It is not. Europe has never produced and never will in our day bring forth a single human soul who cannot be matched and over-matched in every line of human endeavor by Asia and Africa. Run the gamut, if you will, and let us have the Europeans who in sober truth overmatch Nefertari, Mohammed, Rameses and Askia, Confucius, Buddha, and Jesus Christ.

I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams Were it not for your songs.

When you are content to be simply yourself and don't compare or compete, everyone will respect you.

When we talk about the foreign, the question becomes one of us versus them. But in the end, is one just the opposite side of the other?

Recollections of early childhood bear comparison to fairy tales, and ... youth remains an unknown country to whose bourn no traveler returns except as the agent of a foreign power.

You talk about love the same way my patients talk about cancer.