Oh you who are born of the blood of the gods, Trojan son of Anchises, easy is the descent to read more

Oh you who are born of the blood of the gods, Trojan son of Anchises, easy is the descent to Hell; the door of dark Dis stands open day and night. But to retrace your steps and come out to the air above, that is work, that is labor! - Aeneid, The.

The universe is made up of stories, not of atoms.

The universe is made up of stories, not of atoms.

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.

A university is what a college becomes when the faculty loses interest in students.

A university is what a college becomes when the faculty loses interest in students.

A classic is a book that has never finished saying what it has to say.

A classic is a book that has never finished saying what it has to say.

The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While read more

The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,The matrons glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;These were thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms -- but all these charms are fled. - Deserted Village, The.

Nothing but blackness aboveAnd nothing that moves but the cars...God, if you wish for our love,Fling us a handful of read more

Nothing but blackness aboveAnd nothing that moves but the cars...God, if you wish for our love,Fling us a handful of stars! - Caliban in the Coal Mines.

Perish those who said our good things before we did.

Perish those who said our good things before we did.

To provoke dreams of terror in the slumber of prosperity has become the moral duty of literature.

To provoke dreams of terror in the slumber of prosperity has become the moral duty of literature.