“Your page stands against you and says to you that you are a thief.”

I know all that better than my own name.

What quick wit is found in sudden straits!

Who gives to friends so much from Fate secures, That is the only wealth for ever yours.

You are sad in the midst of every blessing. Take care that Fortune does not observe–or she will call you ungrateful.

To be able to enjoy one’s past life is to live twice.

If my opinion is of any worth, the fieldfare is the greatest delicacy among birds, the hare among quadrupeds.

It is feeling and force of imagination that make us eloquent.

Givers of great dinners know few enemies.

Joys do not stay, but take wing and fly away.

Spare the person but lash the vice.

I’m what I seem; not any dyer gave, But nature dyed this colour that I have.

Some good, some so-so, and lots plain bad: that’s how a book of poems is made, my Friend.

Can the fish love the fisherman?

Tis easy to write epigrams nicely, but to write a book is hard.

For wealth’s now given to none but to the rich.

Red-haired, black-lipped, club-footed, and blink-eyed; if you’re a good man, you’re a wonder!

Tweets are published in less than a second, Safari pages load in less than three seconds.

I think many poets, including myself, write both for the voice and for the page. I certainly write for the person alone in the library, who pulls down a book and it opens to a poem. I am also very conscious of what it means to read these poems aloud.

The experience of reading a comic should not be the time it takes to turn each page.

I could write pages of poetry about you. And yet words never seem to say enough.

You try not to because it’s hard and at times shameful, but then when you read those pages over and you see they have no life to them so you throw them away and force yourself to be more honest.

I had a financial page to write in the Mail on Sunday where Id give tips on shares. I worked there for two and a half years. Nothing compares to the burst of energy felt on a newsroom floor when a big story breaks.

For me, the beauty of the blank page, or empty screen,staring up at nine thirty after two cups of coffee and a deep breath remains unique.

When he is wounded, I bleed. {page 262 of John Adams}