I am thirty-three - the age of the good Sans-culotte Jesus an age fatal to revolutionists.
Miller is not really a writer but a non-stop talker to whom someone has given a typewriter.
We confess our bad qualities to others out of fear of appearing naive or ridiculous by not being aware of them.
We are closer to the ants than to the butterflies. Very few people can endure much leisure.
In a happy marriage it is the wife who provides the climate, the husband the landscape.
The award of a pure gold medal for poetry would flatter the recipient unduly no poem ever attains such carat purity.
The cliche is dead poetry.
Everyone is a bore to someone. That is unimportant. The thing to avoid is being a bore to oneself.
Poets and painters are outside the class system, or rather they constitute a special class of their own, like the circus people and the gipsies.
Everyone alters and is altered by everyone else. We are all the time taking in portions of one another or else reacting against them, and by these involuntary acquisitions and repulsions modifying ourselves.
Everyone is a bore to someone. That is unimportant. The things to avoid is being a bore to oneself.
Poets and painters are outside the class system, or rather they constitute a special class of their own, like the circus people and the Gypsies.
Wisdom is keeping a sense of fallibility of all our views and opinions.
Those who have some means think that the most important thing in the world is love. The poor know that it is money.
Middle age snuffs out more talent than even wars or sudden death does.
Do not believe those persons who say they have never been jealous. What they mean is that they have never been in love.
Old age takes away from us what we have inherited and gives us what we have earned.
Intellectuals are people who believe that ideas are of more importance than values. That is to say, their own ideas and other people's values.
We are closer to the ants than to butterflies. Very few people can endure much leisure.
The cliche is dead poetry. English, being the language of an imaginative race, abounds in cliches, so that English literature is always in danger of being poisoned by its own secretions.