... And now we shan't be parted no more, and that's finished.

— E.M. Forster

... and someone he scarcely knew moved towards him and knelt beside him and whispered, 'Sir, was you calling out for me? ... Sir, I know ... I know,' and touched him.

— E.M. Forster

A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.

— E.M. Forster

As for her hair, or rather hairs, they are too complicated to describe, but one system went down her back, lying in a thick pad there, while another, created for a lighter destiny, rippled around her forehead.

— E.M. Forster

As her time in Florence drew to a close she was only at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent.

— E.M. Forster

A slow nature such as Maurice's appears insensitive, for it needs time even to feel. Its instinct is to assume that nothing either for good or evil has happened, and to resist the invader. Once gripped, it feels acutely, and its sensations in love are particularly profound. Given time, it can know and impart ecstasy; given time, it can sink to the heart of Hell.

— E.M. Forster

A work of art is never finished. It is merely abandoned.

— E.M. Forster

Beauty ought to look a little surprised: it is the emotion that best suits her face.... The beauty who does not look surprised, who accepts her position as her due—she reminds us too much of a prima donna.

— E.M. Forster

Books have to be read (worse luck, for it takes a long time); it is the only way of discovering what they contain.

— E.M. Forster

But nothing in India is identifiable, the mere asking of a question causes it to disappear and merge into something else.

— E.M. Forster