He who writes prose builds his temple to Fame in rubble; he who
writes verses builds it in granite.
read more

He who writes prose builds his temple to Fame in rubble; he who
writes verses builds it in granite.
- Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer-Lytton, first Baron Lytton,

Oh! rather give me commentators plain,
Who with no deep researches vex the brain;
Who from the read more

Oh! rather give me commentators plain,
Who with no deep researches vex the brain;
Who from the dark and doubtful love to run,
And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun.

Dear authors! suit your topics to your strength,
And ponder well your subject, and its length;
Nor read more

Dear authors! suit your topics to your strength,
And ponder well your subject, and its length;
Nor lift your lad, before you're quite aware
What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear.

Writers, especially when they act in a body and with one
direction, have great influence on the public mind.

Writers, especially when they act in a body and with one
direction, have great influence on the public mind.

There is probably no hell for authors in the next world--they
suffer so much from critics and publishers in read more

There is probably no hell for authors in the next world--they
suffer so much from critics and publishers in this.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
read more

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.

As so I penned
It down, until at last it came to be,
For length and breadth, read more

As so I penned
It down, until at last it came to be,
For length and breadth, the bigness which you see.

None but an author knows an author's cares,
Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears.

None but an author knows an author's cares,
Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears.

But every fool describes, in these bright days,
His wondrous journey to some foreign court,
And spawns read more

But every fool describes, in these bright days,
His wondrous journey to some foreign court,
And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,--
Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.