quotes from classic
/ page 304 of 1205 /The excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeable evaporate.
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Poetry should please by a fine excess and not by singularity. It should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost as a remembrance.
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O for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts!
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Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific--and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
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When I have fears that I may cease to be, Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain.
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Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright, And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen For what listen they
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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted thence proceeds mawkishness.
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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing -- to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
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The automobile changed our dress, manners, social customs, vacation habits, the shape of our cities, consumer purchasing patterns, common tastes and positions in intercourse
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Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought / As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced -- even a proverb is no proverb to you till your life has illustrated it.
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His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed;
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Even if I was well - I must make myself as good a Philosopher as possible. Now I have had opportunities of passing nights anxious and awake I have found other thoughts intrude upon me. If I should die, said I to myself, I have left no immortal work behind me - nothing to make my friends proud of my memory - but I have lov'd the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remember'd.
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Why were they proud? again we ask aloud, / Why in the name of Glory were they proud?
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You might curb your magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your subject with ore.
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous -- who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.
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What the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth.
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There is a budding morrow in midnight.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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