But what is life if you don't live it?
O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
Failure is in a sense the highway to success, as each discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true.
A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
Life is but a day: A fragile dewdrop on its perilious way From a tree's summit
Certain anthropologists hold that man, having discovered tools, ceased to evolve biologically. Animals, never having discovered them, continue to fashion drills out of their beaks, oars out of their hind feet, wings out of their forefeet, suits of armor out of their hides, levers out of their horns, saws out of their teeth. Whether this be true or not, all authorities agree that man is the tool-using animal. It sets him off from the rest of the animal kingdom as drastically as does speech.
There are hardly half a dozen writers in England today who have not sold out to the enemy. Even when their good work has been a success, Mammon grips them and whispers: More money for more work.
Should I be offended? (Livia) Please don’t be. I pride myself on being socially inept. But the only people I ever intentionally offend are my bevy of brothers. And speaking of, where’s Big Bad Angry One? (Zarina)
I was trying to unravel the complicated trigonometry of the radical thought that silence could make up the greatest lie ever told.