Every man's memory is his private literature.

Every man's memory is his private literature.

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.

Writing is not a profession but a vocation of unhappiness.

Writing is not a profession but a vocation of unhappiness.

In the history of literature there are many great enduring works which were not published in the lifetimes of the read more

In the history of literature there are many great enduring works which were not published in the lifetimes of the authors. If the authors had not achieved self-affirmation while writing, how could they have continued to write? - Nobel Lecture 2000.

All literature is political.

All literature is political.

For the high achievers, studying gave them the pleasing, absorbing challenge o flow 40 percent of the hours they spent read more

For the high achievers, studying gave them the pleasing, absorbing challenge o flow 40 percent of the hours they spent at it. But for low achievers, studying produced flow only 16 percent of the time; more often that not, it yielded anxiety, with the demands outreaching their abilities.

There is first the literature of knowledge, and secondly, the
literature of power. The function of the first is--to read more

There is first the literature of knowledge, and secondly, the
literature of power. The function of the first is--to teach; the
function of the second is--to move, the first is a rudder, the
second an oar or a sail. The first speaks to the mere discursive
understanding; the second speaks ultimately, it may happen, to
the higher understanding or reason, but always through affections
of pleasure and sympathy.
- Thomas De Quincey ("The Opium Eater"),

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he read more

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! - Destruction of Sennacherib, The.

Accuse not nature, she hath done her part;Do thou but thine, and be not diffidentOf wisdom, she deserts thee not, read more

Accuse not nature, she hath done her part;Do thou but thine, and be not diffidentOf wisdom, she deserts thee not, if thouDismiss not her, when most thou needest her nigh,By attributing overmuch to thingsLess excellent, as thou thyself perceivest. - Paradise Lost.