A quiet city is a contradiction in terms. It is a thing uncanny, spectral.
The critic who justly admires all kinds of things simultaneously cannot love any one of them.
Not philosophy, after all, not humanity, just sheer joyous power of song, is the primal thing in poetry.
Every kind of writing is hypocritical.
Great men are but life-sized. Most of them, indeed, are rather short.
The past is a work of art, free of irrelevancies and loose ends.