Literature is the orchestration of platitudes.

Literature is the orchestration of platitudes.

Beauty is but a flower,Which wrinkles will devour;Brightness falls from the air;Queens have died young and fair;Dust hath closed Helen's read more

Beauty is but a flower,Which wrinkles will devour;Brightness falls from the air;Queens have died young and fair;Dust hath closed Helen's eye.I am sick, I must die;Lord have mercy on us. - Song in Time of Pestilence.

English literature is a kind of training in social ethics. English trains you to handle a body of information in read more

English literature is a kind of training in social ethics. English trains you to handle a body of information in a way that is conducive to action.

Great literature is simply language charged with meaning to the utmost possible degree.

Great literature is simply language charged with meaning to the utmost possible degree.

The republic of letters.
[Fr., La republique des lettres.]

The republic of letters.
[Fr., La republique des lettres.]

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.

People create stories create people; or rather stories create people create stories.

People create stories create people; or rather stories create people create stories.

The true teacher defends his pupils against his own personal influence. He inspires self-distrust. He guides their eyes from himself read more

The true teacher defends his pupils against his own personal influence. He inspires self-distrust. He guides their eyes from himself to the spirit that quickens him. He will have no disciple.

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.