You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends, And how, how rare and strange it is, to find In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends, (For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind! How keen you are!) To find a friend who has these qualities, Who has, and gives Those qualities upon which friendship lives. How much it means that I say this to you- Without these friendships-life, what cauchemar!

Knowledge is invariably a matter of degree: you cannot put your finger upon even the simplest datum and say this we know.

In a world of fugitives, the person taking the opposite direction will appear to run away.

Between the conception and the creation, between the emotion and the response, Falls the shadow.

Poetry is a mug's game.

We might remind ourselves that criticism is as inevitable as breathing, and that we should be none the worse for articulating what passes in our minds when we read a book and feel an emotion about it, for criticizing our own minds in their work of criticism.

There is no such thing as a lost cause, because there is no such thing as a gained cause