I have begun to think of life as a series of ripples widening out from an original center.
Revolution as an ideal concept always preserves the essential content of the original thought: sudden and lasting betterment.
An original something, dear maid, you would wish me to write; but how shall I begin? For I’m sure I have not original in me, Excepting Original Sin.
If contemporary artists sincerely seek to be original, unique, and new, they should begin by disregarding the notions of originality, individuality, and innovation: they are the cliches of our time.
The product of mental labor – science – always stands far below its value, because the labor-time necessary to reproduce it has no relation at all to the labor-time required for its original production.
Here society is reduced to its original elements, the whole fabric of art and conventionality is struck rudely to pieces, and men find themselves suddenly brought back to the wants and resources of their original natures.
There is no original truth, only original error.
The doctrine of original sin claims that all men sinned in Adam; but whether they did or whether it is merely a fact that all men sin does not basically affect the problem of suffering.
In poetry, I have, since very young, loved poetry in translation. The Chinese, the French, the Russians, Italians, Indians and early Celts: the formality of the translator’s voice, their measured breath and anxiety moves me as it lingers over the original.
Restorers of paintings and pottery follow a code of conduct in their work to distinguish the original material from what they are adding later.