When we read of human beings behaving in certain ways, with the approval of the author, who gives his benediction to this behavior by his attitude towards the result of the behavior arranged by himself, we can be influenced towards behaving in the same way.
Art never improves, but... the material of art is never quite the same.
I do not believe that any writer has ever exposed this bovarysme, the human will to see things as they are not, more clearly than Shakespeare.
The Nobel is a ticket to one's own funeral. No one has ever done anything after he got it.
Dear Mother, I am getting on nicely in my work at the bank, and like it ... I want to find out something about the science of money while I am at it; it is an extraordinarily interesting subject.
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion.
I don't believe one grows older. I think that what happens early on in life is that at a certain age one stands still and stagnates.
War among men defiles this world.
Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.
O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark, The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant
Poetry should help, not only to refine the language of the time, but to prevent it from changing too rapidly.
What a poem means is as much what it means to others as what it means to the author; and indeed, in the course of time a poet may become merely reader in respect to his own works, forgetting his original meaning.
It's not wise to violate rules until you know how to observe them.
I am tired with my own life and the lives of those after me, I am dying in my own death and the deaths of those after me.
It has frequently been said that we never desire what we think absolutely inapprehensible: it is however true that some of our sharpest agonies are those in which the object of desire is regarded as both possible and imaginary.
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors and issues.
I was too slow a mover to be a boxer. It was much easier to be a poet.
Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall My buried life, and Paris in the spring, I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world To be wonderful and youthful afterall
There is, it seems to us, At best, only a limited value In the knowledge derived from experience.
Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman -But who is that on the other side of you?
Death has a hundred hands and walks by a thousand ways.
The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.
We fight for lost causes because we know that our defeat and dismay may be the preface to our successors' victory, though that victory itself will be temporary; we fight rather to keep something alive than in the expectation that anything will triumph.
In our rhythm of earthly life we tire of light. We are glad when the day ends, when the play ends; and ecstasy is too much pain.
O father, father Gone from us, lost to us, The church lies bereft, Alone, Desecrated, desolated. And the heathen shall build On the ruins Their world without God. I see it. I see it.
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