Here at lastWe shall be free;the Almighty hath not builtHere for his envy, will not drive us hence:Here we may read more

Here at lastWe shall be free;the Almighty hath not builtHere for his envy, will not drive us hence:Here we may reign secure, and in my choiceTo reign is worth ambition though in Hell:Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven. - Paradise Lost.

I've always believed in writing without a collaborator, because where two people are writing the same book, each believes he read more

I've always believed in writing without a collaborator, because where two people are writing the same book, each believes he gets all the worries and only half the royalties.

When a man can observe himself suffering and is able, later, to describe what he's gone through, it means he read more

When a man can observe himself suffering and is able, later, to describe what he's gone through, it means he was born for literature.

Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind.

Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind.

Vigny, more secretAs if in his tower of ivory, retired before noon."N.B.: Vigny refers to Comte de Vigny, who locked read more

Vigny, more secretAs if in his tower of ivory, retired before noon."N.B.: Vigny refers to Comte de Vigny, who locked himself in an ivory tower to work without the influences of man and desire. - Pensees d'Aout.

. . . A man of the world amongst men of letters, a man of letters
amongst men of read more

. . . A man of the world amongst men of letters, a man of letters
amongst men of the world.

They castrate the books of other men in order that with the fat of their works they may lard their read more

They castrate the books of other men in order that with the fat of their works they may lard their own lean volumes.

People do not deserve to have good writings; they are so pleased with bad.

People do not deserve to have good writings; they are so pleased with bad.

Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.

Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.