Title deeds generally outlast poems.
When poets go off the boil, they sound like bumble bees; when critics do, they sound like sewing machines.
Rhyme and meter force gaps in meaning so the muse can enter.
Rule of religion: purpose breathes even in dirt and stones.
The worship of Mammon may be vulgar or immoral, but it persists while other religions falter and disappear.
A theology whose god is a metaphor is wasting its time.
The sacred is found boring by many who find the uncanny fascinating.
Beautiful people are forgiven more often than the rest.
Beauty and virtue: the most kissable ass in the world is no guarantee of good intentions.
Beauty compels us; reason merely cajoles.
I feel that I have something significant to say, but I cannot think what it is.
A small boy puts his hand on the wall, and looks down intently as he wriggles his toes. The birth of thought?
Every few years something new breaks into the circle of my thoughts.
Thought enables us to see Fate coming.
Travelling carries me to the surface, away from the deeps of home-thoughts.
Thought maps existence; fantasy colors it.
Life is always rich, thought only occasionally so.
No matter how close thought sticks to the actual, it follows its own rules.
Mathematics: silent harmonies. Music: sounding numbers.
The harp is an insipid instrument--no good for dancing, feasting, or marching, only for sitting primly in a parlor or on a cloud.
To avoid discord, never put two wise people in the same room.
As an elder I mistrust the wisdom of age.
Wisdom has lost repute because it so often applies to a state of affairs that no longer exists.
Wisdom knows when to return death's embrace.
My mentors grow old and foolish. I am afraid.
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