Sentencje w bazie gavagai:
What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.
Half of the harm that is done in this world is due to people who want to feel important.
Humankind cannot bear very much reality.
Poetry is not the assertion of truth, but the making of that truth more fully real to us.
Birth, and copulation, and death. That's all the facts when you come to brass tacks.
Najgorszym niedołęgą jest ten, kto stale wmawia sobie, że innym też nie poszło lepiej.
Tylko ci, którzy zaryzykują posunięcie się za daleko, mogą ewentualnie dowiedzieć się, jak daleko można się posunąć.
Nigdy nie zaprzestaniemy badać i poznawać. A u kresu naszego poznawania dotrzemy tam, skąd rozpoczęliśmy i zrozumiemy to miejsce po raz pierwszy.
The remarkable thing about television is that it permits several million people to laugh at the same joke and still feel lonely.
I tak się właśnie skończył świat; Nie hukiem, ale skomleniem.
And we thank Thee that darkness remind us of light.
Some editors are failed writers, but so are most writers.
Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.
So far as we are human, what we do must be either evil or good: so far as we do evil or good, we are human: and it is better, in a paradoxical way, to do evil than to do nothing: at least we exist.
We know too much, and are convinced of too little. Our literature is a substitute for religion, and so is our religion.
And indeed there will be time To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?" Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair. . . Do I dare disturb the universe?
We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value -- a test, it is true, which can only be slowly and cautiously applied, for we are none of us infallible judges of conformity.
April is the cruelest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. (from The Wasteland)
Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?
The more perfect the artist, the more completely separate in him will be the man who suffers and the mind which creates.
And the wind shall say: Here were decent godless people. Their only monument the asphalt road. And a thousand lost golf balls.
Poezja to przemiana krwi w atrament.