Where every something, being blent together turns to a wild of nothing.

Intellectuals are in a position to expose the lies of governments, to analyze actions according to their causes and motives and often hidden intentions.

When you become a Christian, something truly amazing happens: God comes to live inside your heart. You become the home of God.

There is no just and serene criticism as yet.

If I’m the people’s poet, then I ought to be in people’s hands – and, I hope, in their heart.

Certainly, if you look at human behavior around the world, you have to admit that we can be very aggressive.

There are in fact two things, science and opinion; the former begets knowledge, the latter ignorance.

There is good and mediocre writing within every genre.

He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.

It is always good men who do the most harm in the world.

Analysis is like a lobotomy. Who wants to have all their edges shaved off?

Every formula of every religion has in this age of reason, to submit to the acid test of reason and universal assent.

When men and woman die, as poets sung, his heart’s the last part moves, her last, the tongue.

Criticism is prejudice made plausible.

But if you – if what – the reports are true, what they’re saying is, is that as a consequence of us getting 30 million additional people health care, at the margins that’s going to increase our costs, we knew that.

Time, which alone makes the reputation of men, ends by making their defects respectable.

I think that there is nothing, not even crime, more opposed to poetry, to philosophy, ay, to life itself than this incessant business.

I wrote some of the worst poetry west from the Mississippi River, but I wrote. And I finally sometimes got it right.

Conversion is a change of masters. Will we not do as much for our new master, the Lord Jesus, as we did once for our old tyrant lusts?

How prone to doubt, how cautious are the wise!

Nothing endures but change.

Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.

All genuinely intellectual work is humorous.

The whole of science is nothing more than a refinement of everyday thinking.

Pound’s crazy. All poets are. They have to be. You don’t put a poet like Pound in the loony bin.

Superstition is the poetry of life.

The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.

If you judge, investigate.

Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history.

Mysterious love, uncertain treasure, hast thou more of pain or pleasure! Endless torments dwell about thee: Yet who would live, and live without thee!

If you go back a few hundred years, what we take for granted today would seem like magic – being able to talk to people over long distances, to transmit images, flying, accessing vast amounts of data like an oracle. These are all things that would have been considered magic a few hundred years ago.

There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.

Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.

A poem is a naked person… Some people say that I am a poet.

It’s a philosophy of life. A practice. If you do this, something will change, what will change is that you will change, your life will change, and if you can change you, you can perhaps change the world.

O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!

The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means.

We were never intimate mother and children while she was our mother – but… when she became our child, the affection came.

A poet can survive everything but a misprint.

The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Whoever will be born must destroy a world.

Everything that exists is in a manner the seed of that which will be.

Modern poets talk against business, poor things, but all of us write for money. Beginners are subjected to trial by market.

The poets are only the interpreters of the gods.

I don’t usually admire Sarah Palin, but when she was making fun of this ‚hopey changey stuff,‘ she was right: there was nothing there.

Nothing is so fatal to religion as indifference.

Cunning… is but the low mimic of wisdom.

Still round the corner there may wait, A new road or a secret gate.

I cry so much less than I used to. I used to be one of the most teary people.

The gross heathenism of civilization has generally destroyed nature, and poetry, and all that is spiritual.

A novel is a work of poetry. In order to write it, one must have tranquility of spirit and of impression.

When you think of the exponential speed and scale of expansion of social media or a service, you have to believe that it is equally possible to rapidly transform the lives of those who have long stood on the margins of hope.

Long stormy spring-time, wet contentious April, winter chilling the lap of very May; but at length the season of summer does come.

Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild; In Wit a man; Simplicity, a child.

We have one planet in our solar system that’s habitable, and that’s the Earth, and space travel can transform things back here for the better. First of all, by just having people go to space and look back on this fragile planet we live on. People have come back transformed and have done fantastic things.

Every day we should hear at least one little song, read one good poem, see one exquisite picture, and, if possible, speak a few sensible words.

The human brain is an incredible pattern-matching machine.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.

Ever since Newton, we’ve done science by taking things apart to see how they work. What the computer enables us to do is to put things together to see how they work: we’re now synthesized rather than analysed. I find one of the most enthralling aspects of computers is limitless communication.

You’ll never have a quiet world till you knock the patriotism out of the human race.

Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain; awake but one, and in, what myriads rise!

Do not go gentle into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.