I have students who are now in chairs in five continents. They invite me to their inaugurals. A tremendous reward.

I find so much writing colourless, small in its means, unwilling to take stylistic risks. Often it goes wrong; I am not the one to judge. Sometimes, I hope, it goes right.

To many men... the miasma of peace seems more suffocating than the bracing air of war.

The letter kills the spirit. The written text is mute in the face of responding challenge. It does not admit of inward growth and correction. Text subverts the absolutely vital role of memory.

Language is the main instrument of man's refusal to accept the world as it is.

The ordinary man casts a shadow in a way we do not quite understand. The man of genius casts light.

If there is a chronic infirmity by which every teacher ought to be afflicted, it is, indeed, hope.