Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.

And the end and the beginning were always there Before the beginning and after the end.

Talent imitates, but genius steals.

This is the feeling for syllable and rhythm, penetrating far below the conscious levels of thought and feeling, invigorating every word.

Someone said, 'The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did.' Precisely, and they are that which we know.

All time is eternal, moving inexorably toward an end which we believe is a result of our actions, but over which our control is mere illusion.

life is long between the desire and the spasm.