The great ages did not contain the best talent, they wasted less.
I would meet you upon this honestly. I that was near your heart was removed therefrom To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition. I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it Since what is kept must be adulterated? I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch: How should I use them for your closer contact?
Probably, indeed, the larger part of the labor of an author composing his work is critical labor; the labor of sifting, combining, constructing, expunging, correcting, testing. This frightful toil is as much critical as creative.
And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you I will show you fear in a handful of dust
In my beginning is my end.
So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore.
After such knowledge, what forgiveness?
If all time is eternally present, all time is unredeemable
I love reading another reader’s list of favorites. Even when I find I do not share their tastes or predilections, I am provoked to compare, contrast, and contradict. It is a most healthy exercise, and one altogether fruitful.
Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky
A play should give you something to think about. When I see a play and understand it the first time, then I know it can't be much good.
Again I must remind you that a dog's a dog-a cat's a cat.
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, every poem an epitaph.
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me. 'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak. 'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? 'I never know what you are thinking. Think.
We know too much, and are convinced of too little. Our literature is a substitute for religion, and so is our religion.
Our emotions Are only “incidents” In the effort to keep day and night together.
Can we only love Something created in our own imaginations?
time past and time future what might have been and what has been point to one end, which is always present.
No artist produces great art by a deliberate attempt to express his own personality.
Whatever you do, don't whimper, but take the consequences.
The lot of man is ceaseless labor, Or ceaseless idleness, which is still harder.
Any poet, if he is to survive beyond his 25th year, must alter; he must seek new literary influences; he will have different emotions to express.
Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove.
Philosophy: a purple bullfinch in a lilac tree.
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