A poet over 30 is pathetic
When somebody says it’s not about the money, it’s about the money.
There is only one justification for having sinned, and that is to be glad of it.
The dying man doesn't struggle much and he isn't much afraid. As his alkalies give out he succumbs to a blest stupidity. His mindfogs. His will power vanishes. He submits decently. He scarcely gives a damn.
The intellectual heritage of the race belongs to the minority.
What fetched me instantly (and thousands of other newcomers with me) was the subtle but unmistakable sense of escape from the United States.