The author may not interpret. But he must tell why and how he wrote his book.

You’ll come back To me . . . It’s written in the stars, you see, you’ll come back. You’ll come back, it’s a fact that I am strong because I do believe in you.

The step between ecstatic vision and sinful frenzy is all too brief.

When the poet is in love, he is incapable of writing poetry on love. He has to write when he remembers that he was in love.

Even today, I frequently meet scientists who, outside their own narrow discipline, are superstitious.

We are always remaking history. Our memory is always an interpretive reconstruction of the past, so is perspective.

For such is the fate of parody: it must never fear exaggerating. If it strikes home, it will only prefigure something that others will then do without a smile--and without a blush--in steadfast virile seriousness.