George MacDonald
Afterwards I learned, that the best way to manage some kinds of painful thoughts, is to dare them to do their worst; to let them lie and gnaw at your heart till they are tired; and you find you still have a residue of life they cannot kill.
— “Phantastes,” by George MacDonald
One very wet day, when the mountain was covered with mist which was constantly gathering itself together into raindrops and pouring down on the roofs of the great old house, whence it fell in a fringe of water from the eaves all round about it, the princess could not of course go out. She got very tired, so tired that even her toys could no longer amuse her. -The Princess and the Goblin, George MacDonald
by ejbeachy
We wrong those near us in being independent of them. God himself would not be happy without His Son. We ought to lean on each other, giving and receiving—not as weaklings, but as lovers. — George MacDonald, The Elect Lady
All at once he heard the sound of a crunching of bones-not as if a creature was eating them, but as if they were ground by the teeth of rage and disappointment; looking up, he saw close above him the mouth of the little cavern in which he had taken refuge the day before. Summoning all his resolution, he passed it slowly and softly. From within came the sounds of a mingled moaning and growling.
-The Grey Wolf, by George Macdonald
by ejbeachy
But it is no use trying to account for things in Fairy Land; and one who travels there soon learns to forget the very idea of doing so, and takes everything as it comes; like a child, who, being in a chronic condition of wonder, is surprised at nothing.
— George MacDonald, Phantastes
“…though I cannot promise to take you home,“ said North Wind, as she sank nearer and nearer to the tops of the houses, “I can promise you it will be all right in the end. You will get home somehow.” ― George MacDonald, At the Back of the North Wind
Illustration from “At the Back of the North Wind" by George MacDonald and illustrated by Jessie Wilcox Smith. Published in 1919. From: Archive.org.
The evening began to grow dark. The autumn wind met us again, colder, stronger, yet more laden with the odours of death and the frosts of the coming winter. But it no longer blew as from the charnel-house of the past; it blew from the stars through the chinks of the unopened door on the other side of the sepulchre. It was a wind of the worlds, not a wind of the leaves. It told of the march of the spheres, and the rest of the throne of God. We were going on into the universe—home to the house of our Father. Mighty adventure! Sacred repose! — Robert Falconer, by George Macdonald (via triadic)