Black chaos comes, and the fettered gods of the earth say, Let there be light.
War makes good history but peace is poor reading.
Time changes everything except something within us which is always surprised by change.
But no one came. Because no one ever does.
The business of the poet and the novelist is to show the sorriness underlying the grandest things and the grandeur underlying the sorriest things.
In the ill-judged execution of the well-judged plan of things the call seldom produces the comer, the man to love rarely coincides with the hour for loving