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This is a collection of 100 beautiful essays in English.Each essay is good for reading. I hope you will find the essays interesting and knowledge giving.
Make a schedule to read one or two essays/articles daily to keep improving your English language.
There are total 10 web pages , each containing 10 essays.You can progress on page numbers and essays by clicking from the links provided.
| Page 1 | Essays 1-10 |
| Page 2 | Essays 10-20 |
| Page 3 | Essays 21-30 |
| Page 4 | Essays 31-40 |
| Page 5 | Essays 41-50 |
| Page 6 | Essays 51-60 |
| Page 7 | Essays 61-70 |
| Page 8 | Essays 71-80 |
| Page 9 | Essays 81-90 |
| Page 10 | Essays 91-100 |
Passage 91. What Every Writer Wants
I have known very few writers, but those I have known, and whom I respect, confess at once that they have little idea where they are going when they first set pen to paper.
They have a character, perhaps two; they are in that condition of eager discomfort which passes for inspiration; all admit radical changes of destination once the journey has begun; one, to my certain knowledge, spent nine months on a novel about Kashmir, then reset the whole thing in the Scottish Highland.
I never heard of anyone making an outline, as we were taught at school.
In the breaking and remaking, in the timing, interweaving, beginning again, the writer comes to discern things in his material which were not consciously in his mind when he began.
This organic process, often leading to moments of extraordinary self-discovery, is of an indescribable fascination.
A blurred image appears; he adds a brushstroke and another, and it is gone; but something was there, and he will not rest till he has captured it.
Sometimes the passion within a writer outlives a book he has written. I have heard of writers who read nothing but their own books; like adolescents they stand before the mirror, and still cannot understand the exact outline of the vision before them.
For the same reason, writers talk endlessly about their own books, digging up hidden meanings, super-imposing new ones, begging response from those around them.
Of course a writer doing this is misunderstood: he might as well try to explain a crime or a love affair.
He is also, incidentally, an unforgivable bore.
This temptation to cover the distance between himself and the reader, to study his image in the sight of those who do not know him, can be his undoing: he has begun to write to please.
A young English writer made the pertinent observation a year or two back that the talent goes into the first draft, and the art into the drafts that follow.
For this reason also the writer, like any other artist, has no resting place, no crowd or movement in which he may take comfort, no judgment from outside which can replace the judgment from within.
A writer makes order out of the anarchy of his heart; he submits himself to a more ruthless discipline than any critic dreamed of, and when he flirts with fame, he is taking time off from living with himself, from the search for what his world contains at its inmost point.
Passage 92. What Every Writer Wants
I have known very few writers, but those I have known, and whom I respect, confess at once that they have little idea where they are going when they first set pen to paper.
They have a character, perhaps two; they are in that condition of eager discomfort which passes for inspiration; all admit radical changes of destination once the journey has begun; one, to my certain knowledge, spent nine months on a novel about Kashmir, then reset the whole thing in the Scottish Highland.
I never heard of anyone making an outline, as we were taught at school.
In the breaking and remaking, in the timing, interweaving, beginning again, the writer comes to discern things in his material which were not consciously in his mind when he began.
This organic process, often leading to moments of extraordinary self-discovery, is of an indescribable fascination.
A blurred image appears; he adds a brushstroke and another, and it is gone; but something was there, and he will not rest till he has captured it. Sometimes the passion within a writer outlives a book he has written.
I have heard of writers who read nothing but their own books; like adolescents they stand before the mirror, and still cannot understand the exact outline of the vision before them.
For the same reason, writers talk endlessly about their own books, digging up hidden meanings, super-imposing new ones, begging response from those around them.
Of course a writer doing this is misunderstood: he might as well try to explain a crime or a love affair.
He is also, incidentally, an unforgivable bore.
This temptation to cover the distance between himself and the reader, to study his image in the sight of those who do not know him, can be his undoing: he has begun to write to please.
A young English writer made the pertinent observation a year or two back that the talent goes into the first draft, and the art into the drafts that follow.
For this reason also the writer, like any other artist, has no resting place, no crowd or movement in which he may take comfort, no judgment from outside which can replace the judgment from within.
A writer makes order out of the anarchy of his heart; he submits himself to a more ruthless discipline than any critic dreamed of, and when he flirts with fame, he is taking time off from living with himself, from the search for what his world contains at its inmost point.
Passage 93. Nonviolent and Noncooperation Movements
In my opinion, the Indian struggle for freedom bears in its consequences not only upon India and England but upon the whole world.
It contains one-fifth of the human race.
It represents one of the most ancient civilizations.
It has traditions handed down from tens of thousands of years, some of which, to the astonishment of the world, remain intact.
No doubt the damages of time have affected the purity of that civilization as they have that of many other cultures and many institutions.
If India is to revive the glory of her ancient past, she can only do so when she attains her freedom.
The reason for the struggle having drawn the attention of the world I know does not lie in the fact that we Indians are fighting for our liberty, but in the fact the means adopted by us for attaining that liberty are unique and, as far as history shows us, have not been adopted by any other people of whom we have any record.
The means adopted are not violence, not bloodshed, not diplomacy as one understands it nowadays, but they are purely and simply truth and nonviolence.
No wonder that the attention of the world is directed toward this attempt to lead a successful bloodless revolution.
Hitherto, nations have fought in the manner of the brute.
They have wreaked vengeance upon those whom they have considered to be their enemies.
We find in searching national anthems adopted by great nations that they contain curse upon the so-called enemy.
They have vowed destruction and have not hesitated to take the name of God and seek divine assistance for the destruction of the enemy.
We in India have endeavored to reverse the process.
We feel that the law that governs brute creation is not the law that should guide the human race.
That law is inconsistent with human dignity.
I, personally, would wait, if need be, for ages rather than seek to attain the freedom of my country through bloody means.
I feel in the innermost of my heart, after a political career extending over an unbroken period of close upon thirty-five years, that the world is sick unto death of blood spilling.
The world is seeking a way out, and I flatter myself with the belief that perhaps it will be the privilege of ancient land of India to show the way out to the hungering world.
Passage 94 We Walk on the Moon
Distinguished Ladies and Gentlemen, it is with a great sense of pride as an American and with humility as a human being that I say to you today what no men have been privileged to say before: We walk on the moon.
But the footprints at Tranquility Base belong to more than the crew of Apollo.
They were put there by hundreds of thousands of people across this country, people in the government, industry and universities, the teams and crews that preceded us, all who strived throughout the years with Mercury, Gemini and Apollo.
Those footprints belong to the American people and you, the representatives, who accept and support, inevitable challenge of the moon.
And, since we came in peace for all mankind those footprints belong also to all people of the world.
As the moon shines impartially on all those looking up from our spinning earth so do we hope the benefits of space exploration will be spread equally with a harmonizing influence to all mankind?
Scientific exploration implies investigating the unknown.
The result can never be wholly anticipated.
Charles Lindberg said, Scientific accomplishment is a path, not an end; a path leading to and disappearing in mystery.
Our steps in space have been a symbol of this country’s way of life as we open our doors and windows to the world to view our successes and failures and as we share with all nations our discovery.
The Saturn, Columbia, and Eagle and the Extravehicular Mobility Unit have proved to Neil,
Mike and me that this nation can produce equipment of the highest quality and dependability.
This should give all of us hope and inspiration to overcome some of the more difficult problems here on earth.
The Apollo lesson is that national goals can be met where there is a strong enough will to do so.
The first step on the moon was a step toward our sister planets and ultimately toward the stars.
A small step for a man, was a statement of a fact, a giant leap for mankind, is a hope for future.
What this country does with the lessons of Apollo apply to domestic problems, and what we do in further space exploration programs will determine just how giant a leap we have taken.
Thank you.
Passage 95 Searching for a Win-Win Solution
Recently I have had a dilemma I’m trying to resolve, a weekend in the near future, where I have conflicting demands and values, and need to be in two places at the same time.
I have agonized over this decision because my intuition is not giving me a clear answer and I haven’t felt that there was a win-win solution.
If I do one thing, I’m letting down a bunch of people.
If I do the other, I’m also missing the mark.
Either way I feel like a loser, not a winner.
This morning I got an e-mail that directly addresses this dilemma:
A Thinking Test
You are driving along on a wild, stormy night.
You pass by a bus stop, and you see three people waiting for the bus:
1. An old lady who is sick and about to die.
2. An old friend who once saved your life.
3. The perfect man or woman you have been dreaming about.
Which one would you choose to pick up, knowing that there could only be one passenger in your car?
The candidate who was hired simply answered:
“I would give the car keys to my old friend, and let him take the lady to the hospital.
I would stay behind and wait for the bus with the woman of my dreams.”
Sometimes, we gain more if we are able to give up our stubborn thought limitations and think outside the box.
If, like me, you are looking at a decision that makes you feel forced to choose between plan A or plan B, and neither plan by itself seems like the right decision, stretch your mind to consider plans C or D, to a third option that solves the problem in a whole new way.
Believe that there is a solution you haven’t yet thought of, which will enable you to feel good about your choice, and then search for what it is.
You are not always the victim in life; most of the time you are the victor looking at the situation from the wrong view!
The view is yours to choose.
Passage 96 A Word for Autumn
Last night the waiter put the celery on with the cheese, and I knew that summer was indeed dead.
Other signs of autumn there may be the reddening leaf, the chill in the early-morning air, the misty evenings but none of these comes home to me so truly.
There may be cool mornings in July; in a year of drought the leaves may change before their time; it is only with the first celery that summer is over.
I knew all along that it would not last.
Even in April I was saying that winter would soon be here.
Yet somehow it had begun to seem possible lately that a miracle might happen, that summer might drift on and on through the months a final upheaval to crown a wonderful year.
The celery settled that.
Last night with the celery autumn came into its own.
A week ago I grieved for the dying summer.
I wondered how I could possibly bear the waiting the eight long months till May.
In vain to comfort myself with the thought that
I could get through more work in the winter undistracted by thoughts of cricket grounds and country houses.
In vain, equally, to tell myself that I could stay in bed later in the mornings.
Even the thought of after-breakfast pipes in front of the fire left me cold.
But now, suddenly, I am reconciled to autumn.
I see quite clearly that all good things must come to an end.
The summer has been splendid, but it has lasted long enough.
This morning I welcomed the chill in the air; this morning I viewed the falling leaves with cheerfulness; and this morning I said to myself, why, of course, I’ll have celery for lunch.
There is a crispness about celery that is of the essence of October.
It is as fresh and clean as a rainy day after a spell of heat.
It crackles pleasantly in the mouth.
Moreover it is excellent, I am told, for the complexion.
One is always hearing of things which are good for the complexion, but there is no doubt that celery stands high on the list. After the burns and freckles of summer one is in need of something.
How good that celery should be there at one’s elbow.
Passage 97 The Folly of Anxiety
Half the people on our streets look as though life was a sorry business.
It is hard to find a happy looking man or woman.
Worry is the cause of their woebegone appearance.
Worry makes the wrinkles; worry cuts the deep, down-glancing lines on the face; worry is the worst disease of our modern times.
Care is contagious; it is hard work being cheerful at a funeral, and it is a good deal harder to keep the frown from your face when you are in the throng of the worry worn ones.
Yet, we have no right to be dispensers of gloom; no matter how heavy our loads may seem to be we have no right to throw their burden on others nor even to cast the shadow of them on other hearts.
Anxiety is instability. Fret steals away force.
He who dreads tomorrow trembles today.
Worry is weakness.
The successful men may be always wide-awake, but they never worry.
Fret and fear are like fine sand, thrown into life’s delicate mechanism; they cause more than half the friction; they steal half the power.
Cheer is strength.
Nothing is so well done as that which is done heartily, and nothing is so heartily done as that which is done happily.
Be happy, is an injunction not impossible of fulfillment.
Pleasure may be an accident; but happiness comes in definite ways.
It is the casting out of our foolish fears that we may have room for a few of our common joys.
It is the telling our worries to wait until we get through appreciating our blessings.
Take a deep breath, raise your chest, lift your eyes from the ground, look up and think how many things you have for which to be grateful, and you will find a smile growing where one may long have been unknown.
Take the right kind of thought for to take no thought would be sin but take the calm, unanxious thought of your business, your duties, your difficulties, your disappointments and all the things that once have caused you fear, and you will find yourself laughing at most of them.
Passage 98 On Going a Journey
One of the pleasantest things in the world is going a journey: but I like to go by myself.
I can enjoy society in a room; but out of doors, nature is company enough for me.
I am then never less alone than when alone.
The fields his study, nature was his book.
I cannot see the wit of walking and talking at the same time.
When I am in the country I wish to vegetate like the country.
I am not for criticizing hedges and black cattle.
I go out for town in order to forget the town and all that is in it.
There are those who for this purpose go to watering places, and carry the metropolis with them.
I like more space and fewer obstacles.
I like solitude, when I give myself up to it, for the sake of solitude; nor do I ask for a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper solitude is sweet.
The soul of journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do, just as one pleases.
We go a journey chiefly to be free of all obstacles and all inconveniences; to leave ourselves behind, much more to get rid of others.
It is because I want a little breathing space to ponder on indifferent matters, where contemplation May plume her feathers and let grow her wings, that in the various bustle of resort were all too ruffled, and sometimes impaired.
I absent myself from the town for a while, without feeling at a loss the moment I am left by myself.
Instead of a friend in a post chaise or in a carriage, to exchange good things with, and vary the same stale topics over again, for once let me have a time free from manners.
Give me the clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and the three hours’ march to dinner and then to thinking!
It is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone heaths.
I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy!
From the point of yonder rolling cloud I plunge into my past being, and revel there as the sun-burnt Indian plunges headlong into the wave that wafts him to his native shore. Then long-forgotten things like sunken wrack and sumless treasuries, burst upon my eager sight, and I begin to feel, think, and be myself again.
Instead of an awkward silence, broken by attempts at wit or dull commonplaces, mine is that undisturbed silence of the heart which alone is perfect eloquence.
Passage 99. Blood, Toil, Sweat and Tears
In this crisis I think I may be pardoned if I do not address the House at any length today, and I hope that any of my friends and colleagues or former colleagues who are affected by the political reconstruction will make all allowances for any lack of ceremony with which it has been necessary to act.
I say to the House as I said to Ministers who have joined this government,
I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, sweat and tears.
We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind.
We have before us many, many months of struggle and suffering.
You ask, what is our policy? I say it is to wage war by land, sea and air.
War with all our might and with all the strength God has given us, and to wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark and unpleasant catalogue of human crime.
That is our policy.
You ask, what is our aim?
I can answer in one word.
It is victory. Victory at all costs victory in spite of all terrors victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory there is no survival.
Let that be realized.
No survival for the British Empire, no survival for all that the British Empire has stood for, no survival for the urge, the impulse of the ages, that mankind shall move forward toward his goal.
I take up my task in light heart and hope.
I feel sure that our cause will not be suffered to fail among men.
I feel entitled at this juncture, at this time, to claim the aid of all and to say,
Come then, let us go forward together with our united strength.
Passage 100 My Perfect House
My house is perfect.
By great good fortune I have found a housekeeper no less to my mind, a low-voiced, light-footed woman of discreet age, strong and deft enough to render me all the service I require, and not afraid of loneliness.
She rises very early.
By my breakfast-time there remains little to be done under the roof save dressing of meals.
Very rarely do I hear even a clink of crockery; never the closing of a door or window.
Oh, blessed silence! My house is perfect.
Just large enough to allow the grace of order in domestic circumstance; just that superfluity of inner space, to lack which is to be less than at one’s ease.
The fabric is sound; the work in wood and plaster tells of a more leisurely and a more honest age than ours.
The stairs do not creak under my step; I am attacked by no unkindly draught; I can open or close a window without muscle-ache.
As to such trifles as the color and device of wall-paper, I confess my indifference; be the walls only plain, and I am satisfied.
The first thing in one’s home is comfort; let beauty of detail be added if one has the means, the patience, and the eye.
To me, this little book-room is beautiful, and chiefly because it is home.
Through the greater part of life I was homeless.
Many places have I lived, some which my soul disliked, and some which pleased me well; but never till now with that sense of security which makes a home.
At any moment I might have been driven forth by evil accident, by disturbing necessity.
For all that time did I say within myself: Some day, perchance, I shall have a home; yet the “perchance” had more and more of emphasis as life went on, and at the moment when fate was secretly smiling on me, I had all but abandoned hope.
I have my home at last.
This house is mine on a lease of a score of years.
So long I certainly shall not live; but, if I did, even so long should I have the money to pay my rent and buy my food.I am no cosmopolite. Were I to think that I should die away from England, the thought would be dreadful to me.And in England, this is the place of my choice; this is my home.
The End