Literary criticism is generally bunk. Nonsense. Usually based on self-serving post-intellectual bullshit.
I have no home but me.
A mystery confounds the problem of industry in art. In the last analysis, to work is simply not enough. But we have to act as if it were, leaving reward aside.
The finest teaching touches in a student a spring neither teacher nor student could possibly have preconceived.
artists often lie behind on the field long after the art combine, the broad-bladed harvester of informed criticism, has mowed, bailed, and stored the crop.
The end of parenthood is implicit in its beginning: separation.
The art of being officially old seems to lie in cooperative submission.
How much more beautiful is the moon, Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree; The moon Wavering across a bed of tulips; The moon, Still, Upon your face. You shine, Beloved, You and the moon. But which is the reflection?
The leaves and the light are one.
But it makes an immigrant laugh to hear the fears of the nationalist, scared of infection, penetration, miscegenation, when this is small fry, peanuts, compared to what the immigrant fears - dissolution, disappearance.
We need only in cold blood to act as if the thing in question were real and it will infallibly end by growing into such a connection with our life that it will become real.