Now is the age of anxiety.

Some writers confuse authenticity, which they ought always to aim at, with originality, which they should never bother about.

Evil is unspectacular and always human, and shares our bed and eats at our own table.

All I have is a voice.

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.

Those who will not reason, perish in the act. Those who will not act, perish for that reason.

Weep for the lives your wishes never led.