Oh you who are born of the blood of the gods, Trojan son of Anchises, easy is the descent to read more

Oh you who are born of the blood of the gods, Trojan son of Anchises, easy is the descent to Hell; the door of dark Dis stands open day and night. But to retrace your steps and come out to the air above, that is work, that is labor! - Aeneid, The.

We read poetry because the poets, like ourselves, have been haunted by the inescapable tyranny of time and death; have read more

We read poetry because the poets, like ourselves, have been haunted by the inescapable tyranny of time and death; have suffered the pain of loss, and the more wearing, continuous pain of frustration and failure; and have had moods of unlooked-for release and peace. They have known and watched in themselves and others.

Just don't take any class where you have to read BEOWULF.

Just don't take any class where you have to read BEOWULF.

The fashion of liking Racine will pass away like that of coffee.
[Fr., La mode d'aimer Racine passera comme read more

The fashion of liking Racine will pass away like that of coffee.
[Fr., La mode d'aimer Racine passera comme la mode du cafe.]

Literature is the art of writing something that will be read twice; journalism what will be grasped at once.

Literature is the art of writing something that will be read twice; journalism what will be grasped at once.

Only two classes of books are of universal appeal. The very best and the very worst.

Only two classes of books are of universal appeal. The very best and the very worst.

I dare say I am compelled, unconsciously compelled, now to write volume after volume, as in past years I was read more

I dare say I am compelled, unconsciously compelled, now to write volume after volume, as in past years I was compelled to go to sea, voyage after voyage. Leaves must follow upon each other as leagues used to follow in the days gone by, on and on to the appointed end, which, being truth itself, is one -- one for all men and for all occupations.

As I was going up the stairI met a man who wasn't thereHe wasn't there again todayI wish, I wish read more

As I was going up the stairI met a man who wasn't thereHe wasn't there again todayI wish, I wish he'd stay away. - The Psychoed.

Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind.

Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind.