The classics are only primitive literature. They belong to the same class as primitive machinery and primitive music and primitive read more

The classics are only primitive literature. They belong to the same class as primitive machinery and primitive music and primitive medicine.

The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While read more

The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,The matrons glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;These were thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms -- but all these charms are fled. - Deserted Village, The.

Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly racking of the brains, to range the thoughts, read more

Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly racking of the brains, to range the thoughts, the matter to digest, to cull fit phrases, and reject the rest.

I've always believed in writing without a collaborator, because where two people are writing the same book, each believes he read more

I've always believed in writing without a collaborator, because where two people are writing the same book, each believes he gets all the worries and only half the royalties.

In the practice of tolerance, one's enemy is the best teacher.

In the practice of tolerance, one's enemy is the best teacher.

Only those things are beautiful which are inspired by madness and written by reason.

Only those things are beautiful which are inspired by madness and written by reason.

But wherefore thou alone? Wherefore with theeCame not all hell broke loose? Is pain to themLess pain, less to be read more

But wherefore thou alone? Wherefore with theeCame not all hell broke loose? Is pain to themLess pain, less to be fled, or thou than theyLess hardy to endure? Courageous chief,The first in flight from pain, hadst thou allegedTo thy deserted host this cause of flight,Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. - Paradise Lost.

Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.

Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.

This book fills a much-needed gap.

This book fills a much-needed gap.