Longfellow smiled. “A great part of the happiness of life consists not in fighting battles, my dear Lowell, but in avoiding them. A masterly retreat is in itself a victory.
I was looking for something else in books. I could not really say what, but I think I can say why: a notion started in my own brain was probably wrong, but an answer read in a work of literature would be right. That was my conviction at nineteen, and only in later years would I come to trust myself over a book.
You are always better off to read a book, anyway, than to meet the person behind it.
I do not seek the mantle of genius. I am an appreciator, an observer, a preposition, and content in that, and that’s me in a nutshell.
These tears were difficult: they didn’t want to come out and they didn’t want to stay in.
The same thing as you, the same as she. The same as anyone who has ever been doubted or told to go away. To prove myself better.
It is my conviction that we make ourselves who we want to be and not chain ourselves to the notions of busybodies who wish to judge us.
It is not when a man is at the end of his life, but when a man is at the end of his profession, that his soul shows itself.
People hate the idea of politicians, you see, but love the idea of authors, at least until they meet one.
Beware the camel’s nose – for its whole body will soon follow.
When you ask one friend to dine, give him your best wine. When you ask two, the second best will do.
He worshipped at the temple of her intellect and I believe it was a comfort to him to know that she left our world with it still shining.
Now, on his way to another lecture, the very thought of entering a room full of students, who still thought it was possible to learn all about something, made him yawn.
These writers take the essence of every person around them, turn them into books and stories without permission or even a simple thank-you, and want all the credit and glory for themselves.
When I ply the cutlass and make the equivalent of sixpence, idiot conscience applauds me. But if I sit in the house and make twenty pounds by writing, idiot conscience wails over my neglect and the day wasted. No, to come down covered with mud and drenched with sweat and rain after some hours in the bush. To change, rub down, and take a chair in the verandah, that makes for a quiet conscience.
Books inspire a man to embrace the world or flee it. They start wars and end them. They make the men and women who write and publish them vast fortunes, and nearly as quickly can drive them into madness and despair. Stay away from what you do not fathom from now on...
What’s the use of having eyes if we can’t see the world we pass through?
Avoid the Holy Grail, the heroic journeys, the pursuit of a legend – that is not the life of the bookaneer, who must keep his eyes on the ground while other book people live by dreaming.
People admired her poetry, but she knew there were plenty of readers who questioned it. How could she write brokenhearted verse if she never loved? Why did she compose so much about death if she knew little of life?
I never fully realized how much a New England birth in itself was worth, but I am happy that that was my lot. I have felt it so keenly these last few days. Dear old New England, with all her sternness and uncompromising opinions; the home of all that is good and noble.