Language is the mother, not the handmaiden, of thought; words will tell you things you never thought or felt before.

We are all here on earth to help others; what on earth the others are here for I don't know.

It takes little talent to see what lies under one's nose, a good deal to know in what direction to point that organ.

The most exciting rhythms seem unexpected and complex, the most beautiful melodies simple and inevitable.

No hero is mortal till he dies.

Far from his illness The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests, The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays; By mourning tongues The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

Literary confessors are contemptible, like beggars who exhibit their sores for money, but not so contemptible as the public that buys their books.