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“How many, once lauded in song, are given over to the forgotten; and how many who sung their praises are clean gone long ago!”
Book VII • Marcus Aurelius“Art never expresses anything but itself.”
The Decay of Lying • Oscar Wilde“O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it?”
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man • James Joyce“To write weekly, to write daily, to write shortly, to write for busy people catching trains in the morning or for tired people coming home in the evening, is a heartbreaking task for men who know good writing from bad. They do it, but instinctively draw out of harm's way anything precious that might be damaged by contact with the public, or anything sharp that might irritate its skin.”
The Common Reader • Virginia Woolf“Suppose that there are two sorts of existences, one seen, and the other unseen. ...The seen is the changing, and the unseen is the unchanging. ...And further, is not one part of us body, and the rest of us soul? ...Then the soul is more like to the unseen, and the body to the seen? ...the soul is then dragged by the body into the region of the changeable, and wanders and is confused; the world spins round her, and she is like a drunkard when under their influence?”
The Trials Of Socrates • Plato