Poets arguing about modern poetry: jackals snarling over a dried-up well.

No one can achieve Serenity until the glare of passion is past the meridian.

If Montaigne is a man in the prime of life sitting in his study on a warm morning and putting down the sum of his experience in his rich, sinewy prose, then Pascal is that same man lying awake in the small hours of the night when death seems very close and every thought is heightened by the apprehension that it may be his last.

Slums may well be breeding grounds of crime, but middle class suburbs are incubators of apathy and delirium.

There is immunity in reading, immunity in formal society, in office routine, in the company of old friends and in the giving of officious help to strangers, but there is no sanctuary in one bed from the memory of another. The past with its anguish will break through every defense-line of custom and habit; we must sleep and therefore we must dream.

For what is liberty but the unhampered translation of will into act?

Youth is a period of missed opportunities.