Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, Having naught else but Hope.
A man of personality can formulate ideals, but only a man of character can achieve them.
Art in its widest sense is the extension of the personality: a host of artificial limbs.
I will no longer mutilate and destroy myself in order to find a secret behind the ruins.
Often even a whole city suffers for a bad man who sins and contrives presumptuous deeds.
If it is well with your belly, chest and feet - the wealth of kings can't give you more.
Get what start the sinner may, Retribution, for all her lame leg, never quits his track.
The wolf dreads the pitfall, the hawk suspects the snare, and the kite the covered hook.
Even virtue followed beyond reason's rule May stamp the just man knave, the sage a fool.
Wealth increaseth, but a nameless something is ever wanting to our insufficient fortune.
The good hate sin because they love virtue. [Lat., Oderunt peccare boni virtutis amore.]
Riches with their wicked inducements increase; nevertheless, avarice is never satisfied.
To make a fortune some assistance from fate is essential. Ability alone is insufficient.
I consider my films to be poems that are all as personal as my writing and as hand-made.
Nobody really knows whether they are a poet. I knew I was interested from the age of 15.
I often feel I'm working in a vacuum, or in a country where few readers hear the sounds.
Whatever you may be sure of, be sure of this, that you are dreadfully like other people.
Ef you want peace, the thing you've gut to du Is jes' to show you're up to fightin', tu.
It is by presence of mind in untried emergencies that the native metal of man is tested.
At some unnoticed moment, I began to understand that a life is written in indelible ink.
Within the silence, expansion, and sustained day by day concentration, I grow permeable.
An angry woman is vindictive beyond measure, and hesitates at nothing in her bitterness.
I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.
We must believe in luck. For how else can we explain the success of those we don't like?
A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.
The public is never pleased with what we do, wanting always a copy of what we have done.
Be a mere assistant to your unconscious. Do only half the work. The rest will do itself.
The day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.
Fame lulls the fever of the soul, and makes Us feel that we have grasp'd an immortality.
He who always prefaces his tale with laughter, is poised between impertinence and folly.
Who knows whence he comes, where he is, and whither he tends, he, and he alone, is wise.
The organized charity, scrimped and iced, In the name of a cautious, statistical Christ.
Dutch food is terrible, I think. What sort of person starts the day with egg and cheese?
So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.
It is too little to call man a little world; Except God, man is a diminutive to nothing.
Let man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this, The intelligence that moves, devotion is.
When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.
He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.
Only man clogs his happiness with care, destroying what is with thoughts of what may be.
So the false spider, when her nets are spread, deep ambushed in her silent den does lie.
But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand, And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land.
But far more numerous was the herd of such, Who think too little, and who talk too much.
The good we have enjoyed from Heaven's free will, and shall we murmur to endure the ill?
I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
Health is the greatest of blessings - with health and hope we should be content to live.
...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.