What living occasion can, Be just to the absent?
An honest self-portrait is extremely rare because a man who has reached the degree of self-consciousness presupposed by the desire to paint his own portrait has almost always also developed an ego-consciousness which paints himself painting himself, and introduces artificial highlights and dramatic shadows.
Had Greek civilization never existed ... we would never have become fully conscious.
August for the people and their favourite islands. Daily the steamers sidle up to meet The effusive welcome of the pier.
The stars are dead. The animals will not look: We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and History to the defeated May say Alas but cannot help nor pardon.
At first critics classified authors as Ancients, that is to say, Greek and Latin authors, and Moderns, that is to say, every post-Classical Author. Then they classified them by eras, the Augustans, the Victorians, etc., and now they classify them by decades, the writers of the '30's, '40's, etc. Very soon, it seems, they will be labeling authors, like automobiles, by the year.
Money is the necessity that frees us from necessity. Of all novelists in any country, Trollope best understands the role of money. Compared with him even Balzac is a romantic.
Harrow the house of the dead; look shining at New styles of architecture, a change of heart.
To my generation no other English poet seemed so perfectly to express the sensibility of a male adolescent. If I do not now turn to him very often, I am eternally grateful to him for the joy he gave me in my youth.
A god who is both self-sufficient and content to remain so could not interest us enough to raise the question of his existence.
When one looks into the window of a store which sells devotional art objects, one can't help wishing the iconoclasts had won.
Out on the lawn I lie in bed, Vega conspicuous overhead.
We till shadowed days are done, We must weep and sing Duty's conscious wrong, The Devil in the clock
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
To me Art's subject is the human clay, / And landscape but a background to a torso; / All Cezanne's apples I would give away / For one small Goya or a Daumier.
Literary confessors are contemptible, like beggars who exhibit their sores for money, but not so contemptible as the public that buys their books.
We honor founders of these starving cities, Whose honor is the image of our sorrow.
There was still gold and silver in the mountains, And hunger was a more immediate sorrow
Defenceless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame.
I don't get acting jobs because of my looks.
The parlour cars and Pullmans are packed also with scented assassins, salad-eaters who murder on milk.
The trees encountered on a country stroll Reveal a lot about that country's soul ... A culture is no better than its woods.
The actors today really need the whip hand. They're so lazy. They haven't got the sense of pride in their profession that the less socially elevated musical comedy and music hall people or acrobats have. The theater has never been any good since the actors became gentlemen.
Detective stories have nothing to do with works of art.
Long ago the accusations had begun, And suddenly knew by whom it had been judged
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