You don’t make a poem with ideas, but with words.
This life is worth living, we can say, since it is what we make it.
In the dim background of mind we know what we ought to be doing but somehow we cannot start.
To be conscious means not simply to be, but to be reported, known, to have awareness of one’s being added to that being.
If a man made himself an expert in any particular branch of human activity, there would result the strong tendency that a peculiar aptitude towards the same branch would be found among some of his descendants.
The world is all the richer for having a devil in it, so long as we keep our foot upon his neck.
Realism is not a matter of any fidelity to an empirical reality, but of the discursive conventions by which and for which a sense of reality is constructed.
Pessimism leads to weakness, optimism to power.
One hearty laugh together will bring enemies into a closer communion of heart than hours spent on both sides in inward wrestling with the mental demon of uncharitable feeling.
I have frequently noticed in myself a tendency to a diffuse style; a disposition to push my metaphors too far, employing a multitude of words to heighten the patness of the image, and so making of it a conceit rather than a metaphor, a fault copiously illustrated in the poetry of Cowley, Waller, Donne, and others of that ilk.