Biographies are but the clothes and buttons of a man -- the biography of the man himself cannot be written.

Biographies are but the clothes and buttons of a man -- the biography of the man himself cannot be written.

Beauty is but a flower,Which wrinkles will devour;Brightness falls from the air;Queens have died young and fair;Dust hath closed Helen's read more

Beauty is but a flower,Which wrinkles will devour;Brightness falls from the air;Queens have died young and fair;Dust hath closed Helen's eye.I am sick, I must die;Lord have mercy on us. - Song in Time of Pestilence.

We cultivate literature on a little oat-meal.

We cultivate literature on a little oat-meal.

Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly racking of the brains, to range the thoughts, read more

Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly racking of the brains, to range the thoughts, the matter to digest, to cull fit phrases, and reject the rest.

But wherefore thou alone? Wherefore with theeCame not all hell broke loose? Is pain to themLess pain, less to be read more

But wherefore thou alone? Wherefore with theeCame not all hell broke loose? Is pain to themLess pain, less to be fled, or thou than theyLess hardy to endure? Courageous chief,The first in flight from pain, hadst thou allegedTo thy deserted host this cause of flight,Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. - Paradise Lost.

The difficulty of literature is not to write, but to write what you mean

The difficulty of literature is not to write, but to write what you mean

Writing is not a profession but a vocation of unhappiness.

Writing is not a profession but a vocation of unhappiness.

A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; but a bad novel tells us the truth about its read more

A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; but a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.

We read poetry because the poets, like ourselves, have been haunted by the inescapable tyranny of time and death; have read more

We read poetry because the poets, like ourselves, have been haunted by the inescapable tyranny of time and death; have suffered the pain of loss, and the more wearing, continuous pain of frustration and failure; and have had moods of unlooked-for release and peace. They have known and watched in themselves and others.