This morning of the small snow I count the blessings, the leak in the faucet which makes of the sink time, the drop of the water on water.
We often represent God to ourselves as being able to draw from non-being a world without sorrows, faults, dangers – a world in which there is no damage, no breakage. This is a conceptual fantasy and makes it impossible to solve the problem of evil.
If man makes himself a worm he must not complain when he is trodden on.
Envy blinds men and makes it impossible for them to think clearly.
Mr. Obama’s approach to engagement to some degree makes him dependent on people who wish neither him nor America well. This doesn’t have to end badly and I hope that it doesn’t – but it’s not an ideal position after one’s first year in power.
I’m not precisely saying that a really good board meeting at the MLA (Museums, Libraries and Archives Coucil) makes me want to go and write poetry, but there is a pleasure in doing that sort of thing well.
Fear of death makes us devoid both of valour and religion. For want of valour is want of religious faith.
Culture, which makes talent shine, is not completely ours either, nor can we place it solely at our disposal. Rather, it belongs mainly to our country, which gave it to us, and to humanity, from which we receive it as a birthright.
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.
Blemishes are hid by night and every fault forgiven; darkness makes any woman fair.