George Meredith

(12 February 1828 – 18 May 1909 / Portsmouth, England)

George Meredith
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George Meredith, OM was an English novelist and poet of the Victorian era.


Meredith was born in Portsmouth, England, a son and grandson of naval outfitters. His mother died when he was five. At the age of 14 he was sent to a Moravian School in Neuwied, Germany, where he remained for two years. He read law and was articled as a solicitor, but abandoned that profession for journalism and poetry. He collaborated with Edward Gryffydh Peacock, son of Thomas Love Peacock in publishing a privately circulated literary magazine, the Monthly Observer. He married Edward Peacock's widowed sister Mary Ellen Nicolls in 1849 when he was twenty-one years old and she was ... more »

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  • ''Cynicism is intellectual dandyism without the coxcomb's feathers.''
    George Meredith (1828-1909), British author. Clara Middleton, quoting Mr. Whitford, in The Egoist, ch. 7 (1879). Clara adds: "It seems to me that ...
  • ''Sentimentalists are they who seek to enjoy without incurring the Immense Debtorship for a thing done.''
    George Meredith (1828-1909), British author. Sir Austin Feverel, quoting the "Pilgrim's Scrip," in "Of the Spring Primrose and the Autumnal," ch. 24, ...
  • ''I expect that Woman will be the last thing civilised by Man.''
    George Meredith (1828-1909), British author. The Ordeal of Richard Feverel, ch. 1 (1859). An aphorism from the "The Pilgrim's Scrip."
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  • Rookie - 69 Points Azad Bongobasi (4/16/2015 2:05:00 AM)

    hello poet, I like your poem. from bangladesh

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Best Poem of George Meredith

Modern Love I: By This He Knew She Wept

By this he knew she wept with waking eyes:
That, at his hand's light quiver by her head,
The strange low sobs that shook their common bed
Were called into her with a sharp surprise,
And strangled mute, like little gaping snakes,
Dreadfully venomous to him. She lay
Stone-still, and the long darkness flowed away
With muffled pulses. Then, as midnight makes
Her giant heart of Memory and Tears
Drink the pale drug of silence, and so beat
Sleep's heavy measure, they from head to feet
Were moveless, looking through their dead black years,
By vain regret scrawled ...

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