Clear, unscaleable ahead, Rise the mountains of instead From whose cold, cascading streams None may drink except in dreams.
Soft as the earth is mankind and both need to be altered.
Be subtle, various, ornamental, clever, And do not listen to those critics ever Whose crude provincial gullets crave in books Plain cooking made still plainer by plain cooks.
I smell blood and an era of prominent madmen.
Nobody knows what the cause is, though some pretend they do; it like some hidden assassin waiting to strike at you. Childless women get it, and men when they retire; it as if there had to be some outlet for their foiled creative fire.
Money cannot buy the fuel of love but is excellent kindling.
Every high C accurately struck demolishes the theory that we are the irresponsible puppets of fate or chance.
Words are for those with promises to keep.
As a rule, it was the pleasure-haters who became unjust.
Detective stories have nothing to do with works of art.
There are three cardinal rules – don’t take somebody else’s boyfriend unless you’ve been specifically invited to do so, don’t take a drink without being asked, and keep a scrupulous accounting in financial matters.
I don’t get acting jobs because of my looks.
The closest modern equivalent to the Homeric hero is the ace fighter pilot.
How happy the lot of the mathematician. He is judged solely by his peers, and the standard is so high that no colleague or rival can ever win a reputation he does not deserve.
The parlour cars and Pullmans are packed also with scented assassins, salad-eaters who murder on milk.
Fate succumbs many a species: one alone jeopardises itself.
Earth, receive an honored guest; William Yeats is laid to rest. Let the Irish vessel lie Emptied of its poetry.
I just try to put the thing out and hope somebody will read it. Someone says: ‘Whom do you write for?’ I reply: ‘Do you read me?’ If they say ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘Do you like it?’ If they say ‘No,’ then I say, ‘I don’t write for you.’
But once in a while the odd thing happens Once in a while the dream comes true And the whole pattern of life is altered Once in a while, the moon turns blue.
A craftsman knows in advance what the finished result will be, while the artist knows only what it will be when he has finished it.