literature

When everything hurries everywhere, nothing goes anywhere.

She regretted the explanation immediately, but that was because she always regretted everything

A word into the silence thrown always finds its echo somewhere where silence opens hidden lexicons.

Why poetry, you ask? Because of life, I answer.

To accomplish the perfect perfection, a little imperfection helps.

From nothing comes everything.

To cut and tighten sentences is the secret of mastery.

While gazing at myself from yourself, I was beautiful.

The universe is God's son.

There is nobody to wake up eternal seekers.

To leave out beautiful sunsets is the secret of good taste.

A star needs a star.

Nobility is not only in forgiveness.

The Anglican service today was more familiar to me from movies. Like one of the great Shakespeare speeches, the graveside oration, studded in fragments in the memory, was a succession of brilliant phrases, book titles, dying cadences that breathed life, pure alertness, along the spine.

If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to-- Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?"They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran off to her own room.

Through everything I have passed but nowhere I have been.

We traveled long and forgot why poetry was invented.

Poirot, watching him, felt suddenly a doubt--an uncomfortable twinge. Was there, here, something that he had missed? Some richness of the spirit? Sadness crept over him. Yes, he should have become acquainted with the classics. Long ago. Now, alas, it was too late....