There is no real teacher who in practice does not believe in the existence of the soul, or in a read more

There is no real teacher who in practice does not believe in the existence of the soul, or in a magic that acts on it through speech.

A poet in history is divine, but a poet in the next room is a joke.

A poet in history is divine, but a poet in the next room is a joke.

If a poet has any obligation toward society, it is to write well. Being in the minority, he has no read more

If a poet has any obligation toward society, it is to write well. Being in the minority, he has no other choice. Failing this duty, he sinks into oblivion. Society, on the other hand, has no obligation toward the poet. A majority by definition, society thinks of itself as having other options than reading verses, no matter how well written. Its failure to do so results in its sinking to that level of locution at which society falls easy prey to a demagogue or a tyrant. This is society's own equivalent of oblivion.

People create stories create people; or rather stories create people create stories.

People create stories create people; or rather stories create people create stories.

A teacher is one who makes himself progressively unnecessary.

A teacher is one who makes himself progressively unnecessary.

Books are humanity in print.

Books are humanity in print.

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.

Till last by Philip's farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go read more

Till last by Philip's farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever. - The Brook.

Author: A fool, who, not content with having bored those who have lived with him, insists on tormenting the generations read more

Author: A fool, who, not content with having bored those who have lived with him, insists on tormenting the generations to come.