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A fool's brain digests philosophy into folly, science into superstition, and art into pedantry. Hence University education.
A fool's brain digests philosophy into folly, science into superstition, and art into pedantry. Hence University education.
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.
Beneath the rule of men entirely great, / The pen is mightier than the sword.
Beneath the rule of men entirely great, / The pen is mightier than the sword.
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.
Books are humanity in print.
Books are humanity in print.
If a poet has any obligation toward society, it is to write well. Being in the minority, he has no read more
If a poet has any obligation toward society, it is to write well. Being in the minority, he has no other choice. Failing this duty, he sinks into oblivion. Society, on the other hand, has no obligation toward the poet. A majority by definition, society thinks of itself as having other options than reading verses, no matter how well written. Its failure to do so results in its sinking to that level of locution at which society falls easy prey to a demagogue or a tyrant. This is society's own equivalent of oblivion.
A poet in history is divine, but a poet in the next room is a joke.
A poet in history is divine, but a poet in the next room is a joke.
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.
