One of the troubles of our times is that we are all, I think, precocious as personalities and backward as characters.
Defenceless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame.
We all have these places where shy humiliations gambol on sunny afternoons.
Those to whom evil is doneDo evil in return.
To the man-in-the-street, who, I'm sorry to say, is a keen observer of life. The word Intellectual suggests straight away. A man who's untrue to his wife.
Few can remember clearly when innocence came to a sudden end, the moment at which we ask for the first time: Am I loved?
Slavery is so intolerable a condition that the slave can hardly escape deluding himself into thinking that he is choosing to obey his master's commands when, in fact, he is obliged to. Most slaves of habit suffer from this delusion and so do some writers, enslaved by an all too personal style.
Beloved, we are always in the wrong, Handling so clumsily our stupid lives, Suffering too little or too long, Too careful even in our selfish loves: The decorative manias we obey Die in grimaces round us every day, Yet through their tohu-bohu comes a voice Which utters an absurd command - Rejoice.
To ask the hard question is simple.
Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.
The relation of faith between subject and object is unique in every case. Hundreds may believe, but each has to believe by himself.
Harrow the house of the dead; look shining at New styles of architecture, a change of heart.
Money is the necessity that frees us from necessity. Of all novelists in any country, Trollope best understands the role of money. Compared with him even Balzac is a romantic.
At first critics classified authors as Ancients, that is to say, Greek and Latin authors, and Moderns, that is to say, every post-Classical Author. Then they classified them by eras, the Augustans, the Victorians, etc., and now they classify them by decades, the writers of the '30's, '40's, etc. Very soon, it seems, they will be labeling authors, like automobiles, by the year.
The stars are dead. The animals will not look: We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and History to the defeated May say Alas but cannot help nor pardon.
August for the people and their favourite islands. Daily the steamers sidle up to meet The effusive welcome of the pier.
Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm.
Poetry makes nothing happen.
Soft as the earth is mankind and both need to be altered.
The parlour cars and Pullmans are packed also with scented assassins, salad-eaters who murder on milk.
The countenances of children, like those of animals, are masks, not faces, for they have not yet developed a significant profile of their own.
I don't get acting jobs because of my looks.
Clear, unscaleable ahead, Rise the mountains of instead From whose cold, cascading streams None may drink except in dreams
In Brueghel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster, the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green water, And the expensive ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die.
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