WIST Quotations

Steele, Richard -- Essay (1713-04-09), The Guardian, No. 25

Dave — Mon, 10 Aug 2026 21:26:21 +0000

The prevailing humour of crying up authors that have writ in the days of our forefathers, and of passing slightly over the merit of our contemporaries, is a grievance that men of a free and unprejudiced thought have complained of through all ages in their writings.

Richard Steele (1672–1729) Anglo-Irish writer, journalist, playwright, politician
Essay (1713-04-09), The Guardian, No. 25
(Source)

Greenwood, Kerry -- Phryne Fisher, Book 16, Murder in the Dark, ch. 16 (2006)

Dave — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 17:21:37 +0000

The upper classes lived well in the good old days. Except, of course, for the famines, the pirates, the bandits, the plagues, the shortness of life and the imminence of ever present death. And no medical treatment, no antiseptic childbirth, no hot baths, no coffee, no chocolate and no tobacco. The last four decided her on the advantages of the twentieth century.

Kerry Greenwood (b. 1954) Australian author and lawyer
Phryne Fisher, Book 16, Murder in the Dark, ch. 16 (2006)
(Source)

The book is set in 1928.

Martin, Judith -- Interview (1997-03), “She Says: Miss Manners,” by Sandy Fernández, Ms magazine, Vol. 7, No. 5 (1997-03/04)

Dave — Mon, 06 Oct 2025 15:01:34 +0000

People are always saying to me, “Don’t you want to go back in time?” To where? Prefeminism? Not very much, no.

Judith Martin (b. 1938) American author, journalist, etiquette expert [a.k.a. Miss Manners]
Interview (1997-03), “She Says: Miss Manners,” by Sandy Fernández, Ms magazine, Vol. 7, No. 5 (1997-03/04)
(Source)

Allen, Elizabeth Akers -- “Rock Me To Sleep, Mother,” ll. 1-2 (1859)

Dave — Fri, 22 Aug 2025 16:00:37 +0000

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again, just for to-night!

Elizabeth Chase Akers Allen (1832–1911) American author, journalist, poet [pseud. Florence Percy]
“Rock Me To Sleep, Mother,” ll. 1-2 (1859)
(Source)

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler -- Poem (1868), “An Autumn Reverie,” st. 4-5, Shells (1873)

Dave — Wed, 18 Jun 2025 16:37:23 +0000

And yet I would not be a child again.
For surely as the night succeeds the day,
So surely will their mirth turn into tears.
And I would not return to happy hours,
If I must live again these weary years.
I would walk on, and leave it all behind:
will walk on; and when my feet grow sore,
The boatman waits — his sails are all unfurled —
He waits to row me to a fairer shore.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850–1919) American author, poet, temperance advocate, spiritualist
Poem (1868), “An Autumn Reverie,” st. 4-5, Shells (1873)
(Source)

Atwood, Margaret -- “Hair Jewellery,” Dancing Girls (1982)

Dave — Fri, 28 Feb 2025 19:31:28 +0000

I’ve never understood why people consider youth a time of freedom and joy. It’s probably because they have forgotten their own.

Margaret Atwood (b. 1939) Canadian writer, literary critic, environmental activist
“Hair Jewellery,” Dancing Girls (1982)
(Source)

Montesquieu -- Pensées Diverses [Assorted Thoughts], # 396 (1720-1755) [tr. Clark (2012)]

Dave — Wed, 21 Aug 2024 17:12:04 +0000

Horace and Aristotle already told us about the virtues of their forefathers and the vices of their times, and authors down through the centuries have spoken in like manner. If they had told the truth, men would nowadays be bears.

[Horace et Aristote nous ont déjà parlé des vertus de leurs pères, et des vices de leur temps, et les auteurs de siècle en siècle nous en ont parlé de même. S’ils avaient dit vrai, les hommes seraient à présent des ours.]

Charles-Lewis de Secondat, Baron de Montesquieu (1689–1755) French political philosopher
Pensées Diverses [Assorted Thoughts], # 396 (1720-1755) [tr. Clark (2012)]
(Source)

(Source (French)). Another translation:

Horace and Aristotle told us of the virtues of their fathers, and the vices of their own time, and authors down through the centuries have told us the same. If they were right, men would now be bears.
[E.g.]

Jerome, Jerome K. -- Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow, “On Memory” (1886)

Dave — Mon, 19 Aug 2024 21:40:20 +0000

I like to sit and have a talk sometimes with that odd little chap that was myself long ago. I think he likes it too, for he comes so often of an evening when I am alone with my pipe, listening to the whispering of the flames. I see his solemn little face looking at me through the scented smoke as it floats upward, and I smile at him; and he smiles back at me, but his is such a grave, old-fashioned smile. We chat about old times; and now and then he takes me by the hand, and then we slip through the black bars of the grate and down the dusky glowing caves to the land that lies behind the firelight. There we find the days that used to be, and we wander along them together. He tells me as we walk all he thinks and feels. I laugh at him now and then, but the next moment I wish I had not, for he looks so grave I am ashamed of being frivolous. Besides, it is not showing proper respect to one so much older than myself — to one who was myself so very long before I became myself.