Out of my own great woe I make my little songs.
God will forgive me. It's his job.
From every Englishman emanates a kind of gas, the deadly choke-damp of boredom.
Wherever books are burned, human beings are destined to be burned too.
You talk of our having an idea; we do not have an idea. The idea has us, and martyrs us, and scourges us, and drives us into the arena to fight and die for it, whether we want to or not.
In these times we fight for ideas and newspapers are our fortress.