John Galsworthy
John Galsworthy OM (icon; 14 August 1867 – 31 January 1933) was an English novelist and playwright. Notable works include The Forsyte Saga
The Forsyte Saga
The Forsyte Saga is a series of three novels and two interludes published between 1906 and 1921 by John Galsworthy. They chronicle the vicissitudes of the leading members of an upper-middle-class British family, similar to Galsworthy's own...

(1906–1921) and its sequels, A Modern Comedy and End of the Chapter. He won the Nobel Prize in Literature
Nobel Prize in Literature
Since 1901, the Nobel Prize in Literature has been awarded annually to an author from any country who has, in the words from the will of Alfred Nobel, produced "in the field of literature the most outstanding work in an ideal direction"...

 in 1932.
John Galsworthy was born at Kingston Hill in Surrey, England into an established wealthy family, the son of John and Blanche Bailey (née Bartleet) Galsworthy.

The world's a fine place for those who go out to take it; there's lots of unknown stuff' in it yet. I'll fill your lap, my pretty, so full of treasures that you shan't know yourself. A man wasn't meant to sit at home...

A Man of Devon (1901)

Justice is a machine that, when someone has once given it the starting push, rolls on of itself.

Justice, Act II (1910)

When Man evolved Pity, he did a queer thing — deprived himself of the power of living life as it is without wishing it to become something different.

Letter to Thomas Hardy (27 March 1910)

Life was to be lived — not torpidly dozed through in this queer cultured place, where age was in the blood! Life was for love — to be enjoyed!

The Dark Flower (1913)

It isn't enough to love people because they're good to you, or because in some way or other you're going to get something by it. We have to love because we love loving.

A Bit O' Love (1915)

Only love makes fruitful the soul. The sense of form that both had in such high degree prevented much demonstration; but to be with him, do things for him, to admire, and credit him with perfection; and, since she could not exactly wear the same clothes or speak in the same clipped, quiet, decisive voice, to dislike the clothes and voices of other men — all this was precious to her beyond everything.

Beyond (1917)

Love! Beyond measure — beyond death — it nearly kills. But one wouldn't have been without it.

Beyond (1917)

Love of beauty is really only the sex instinct, which nothing but complete union satisfies.

Saint's Progress (1919)