The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.
There is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade, but Death you shall not.
Talent imitates, but genius steals.
The business of the poet is not to find new emotions, but to use the ordinary ones and, in working them up into poetry, to express feelings which are not in actual emotions at all.
I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.
No place of grace for those who avoid the Face. No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the Voice.