A thousand policemen directing traffic cannot tell you why you come or where you go.

There is no absolute point of view from which real and ideal can be finally separated and labelled.

We fight for lost causes because we know that our defeat and dismay may be the preface to our successors' victory, though that victory itself will be temporary; we fight rather to keep something alive than in the expectation that anything will triumph.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives.

But it seems that something has happened that has never happened before: though we know not just when, or why, or how, or where.

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still

He had a mind so fine that no idea could violate it