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Literature is the art of writing something that will be read twice; journalism what will be grasped at once.
Literature is the art of writing something that will be read twice; journalism what will be grasped at once.
Memory is a way of holding on to the things you love, the things you are, the things you never read more
Memory is a way of holding on to the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.
All literature is political.
All literature is political.
The secret of a good memory is attention, and attention to a subject depends upon our interest in it. We read more
The secret of a good memory is attention, and attention to a subject depends upon our interest in it. We rarely forget that which has made a deep impression on our minds.
It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, read more
It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment -- but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?
What we learn with pleasure we never forget.
What we learn with pleasure we never forget.
What passing bells for these who die as cattle?Only the monstrous anger of the guns.Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattleCan read more
What passing bells for these who die as cattle?Only the monstrous anger of the guns.Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattleCan patter out their hasty orisons. - Anthem for Doomed Youth.
In the history of literature there are many great enduring works which were not published in the lifetimes of the read more
In the history of literature there are many great enduring works which were not published in the lifetimes of the authors. If the authors had not achieved self-affirmation while writing, how could they have continued to write? - Nobel Lecture 2000.
But woe to him, who left to moan,
Reviews the hours of brightness gone.
But woe to him, who left to moan,
Reviews the hours of brightness gone.
