The cliche is dead poetry.

Poets and painters are outside the class system, or rather they constitute a special class of their own, like the circus people and the Gypsies.

The cliché is dead poetry. English, being the language of an imaginative race, abounds in clichés, so that English literature is always in danger of being poisoned by its own secretions.

Everyone alters and is altered by everyone else. We are all the time taking in portions of one another or else reacting against them, and by these involuntary acquisitions and repulsions modifying our natures.

The cliche is dead poetry.

We soon cease to feel the grief at the deaths of our friends, yet we continue to the end of our lives to miss them. They are still with us in their absence.

A bad memory is the mother of invention.