I smell blood and an era of prominent madmen.

Soft as the earth is mankind and both need to be altered.

Fame often makes a writer vain, but seldom makes him proud.

The nightingales are sobbing in The orchards of our mothers, And hearts that we broke long ago Have long been breaking others; Tears are round, the sea is deep: Roll them overboard and sleep.

Say this city has ten million souls, Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes: Yet there’s no place for us, my dear, yet there’s no place for us.

To pray is to pay attention to something or someone other than oneself.

You shall love your crooked neighbour, with your crooked heart.