Wine is poetry in a bottle.

As between mileage and experience choose experience.

Seriously, I do not know what to say of this book [ Absalom, Absalom!] except that it seem to point to the final blowup of what was once a remarkable, if minor, talent… this is a penny dreadful tricked up in fancy language and given a specious depth by the expert manipulation of a series of eccentric technical tricks. The characters have no magnitude and no meaning because they have no more reality than a mince-pie nightmare.

A bottle of wine begs to be shared; I have never met a miserly wine lover.

Socrates called himself a midwife of ideas. A great book is often such a midwife, delivering to full existence what has been coiled like an embryo in the dark, silent depths of the brain.

The man who attracts luck carries with him the magnet of preparation.

When you reread a classic, you do not see more in the book than you did before; you see more in you than there was before.