“Success is relative. It is what we make of the mess we have made of things.”

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions.

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.

We must not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we began and to know the place for the first time.

For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.

This is the way the world ends not with a bang but a whimper.

Teach us to care and not to care

If you aren’t in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?

I can connect Nothing with nothing

For you know only a heap of broken images

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, and I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, and in short, I was afraid.

The very existence of libraries affords the best evidence that we may yet have hope for the future of man

I am moved by fancies that are curled, around these images and cling, the notion of some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing.

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.