And out of that hopeless attempt has come nearly all that we call human history—money, poverty, ambition, war, prostitution, classes, empires, slavery—the long terrible story of man trying to find something other than God which will make him happy.
For style beyond the genius never dares.
When the poet died his cat was put to death and mummified.
There is no lighter burden, nor more agreeable, than a pen.
For death betimes is comfort, not dismay, and who can rightly die needs no delay.
I have taken pride in others, never in myself.
To begin with myself, then, the utterances of men concerning me will differ widely, since in passing judgment almost every one is influenced not so much by truth as by preference, and good and evil report alike know no bounds.
I can see that the sadness has returned. And it's not a beautiful sadness- beautiful sadness is a myth. Sadness turns our features to clay, not porcelain.
The Christian life from start to finish is based upon this principle of utter dependence upon the Lord Jesus.
I write, but I don't write poetry. I don't rhyme or anything like that.
Every artist who evolves a style does so from illusive elements that inhabit his or her visual storehouse.