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.

Routine, in an intelligent man, is a sign of ambition.

Oh, how I wish that Orwell were still alive, so that I could read his comments on contemporary events!

What is a Professor of Poetry? How can poetry be professed?

If age, which is certainly Just as wicked as youth, look any wiser, It is only that youth is still able to believe It will get away with anything, while age Knows only too well that it has got away with nothing.

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

One of the most horrible, yet most important, discoveries of our age has been that, if you really wish to destroy a person and turn him into an automaton, the surest method is not physical torture, in the strict sense, but simply to keep him awake, i.e., in an existential relation to life without intermission.