Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
The sin That neither God nor man can well forgive.
Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.
A truth looks freshest in the fashions of the day.
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs the deep.
Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.
After-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine.
Men cannot live forever But they must die forever.
If love did not exist, I would be so goddamn sane.
His screaming stallions maned with whistling wind.
The spring is a lively emblem of the Resurrection.
It takes practice to shave the skin off the light.
I never really got over the fun of making letters.
I believe in solitude broken like bread by poetry.
All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
I am not immortal. Faustus and I are the also-ran.
When everything is finished, the mornings are sad.
Writers . . . write to give reality to experience.
They also live Who swerve and vanish in the river.
The horrible pleasure of pleasing inferior people.
I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am there.
But the problem is to make the soul into a monster
None will improve your lot If you yourself do not.
It's never too late for those whose time has come.
You can make a fresh start with your final breath.
High School is the place where poetry goes to die.
One of these days I'm-a make me a book out of you.
No one has a copyright on working-class struggles.
If you accept your limitations you go beyond them.
An author's first duty is to let down his country.
Through silence only the good messages go unheard.
Virtue in a man doesn't make you want to grab him.
I'll be left writing picture books and fairy tales
Between 9am and 3pm is when I work most intensely.
My prose is turgid, it just hasn't got any energy.
It's pointless to cry. One is born and dies alone.
A multitude of small delights constitute happiness
A work of art should be like a well-planned crime.
A book is a garden, a party, a company by the way.
Pretty words, as pretty women, wrinkle up and die.
Something that never happens anywhere at any time.
Well, we lost it, and that’s all there is to that.
in this room the hours of love still make shadows.
Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.
I'm sorry, but I was born with a towel on my head.
For whatever a man has, is in reality only a gift.
Time is the deepest wilderness in which we wander.
Great is his faith who dares believe his own eyes.
Into the eternal darkness, into fire and into ice.