“Of writing many books there is no end.”
“Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which if cut deep down the middle Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.”
“The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental; it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust.”
“A child's kiss Set on thy sighing lips shall make thee glad; A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich; A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong; Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense Of service which thou renderest.”
“Too much beauty, I reckon, is nothing but too much sun.”
“The plague of gold strikes far and near.”
“Write till your ink be dry, and with your tearsMoist it again, and frame some feeling lineThat may discover such integrity.”
“It has come to be practically a sort of rule in literature that a man, having once shown himself capable of original writing, is entitled thenceforth to steal from the writings of others at discretion.”
“My book should smell of pines and resound with the hum of insects.”
“Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.”
“O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.”
“Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough.”
“Nor age so eat up my invention.”
“Ideas are the very coinage of your brain.”
“Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long / To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?”
