Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.
Literature is strewn with the wreckage of those who have minded beyond reason the opinion of others
For books continue each other, in spite of our habit of judging them separately.
About here, she thought, dabbling her fingers in the water, a ship had sunk, and she muttered, dreamily half asleep, how we perished, each alone.
No sooner have you feasted on beauty with your eyes than your mind tells you that beauty is vain and beauty passes
Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy; bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.
I rejoice to concur with the common reader; for by the common sense of readers, uncorrupted by literary prejudices, after all the refinements of subtilty and the dogmatism of learning, must be finally decided all claim to poetical honours.
Even things in a book-case change if they are alive; we find ourselves wanting to meet them again; we find them altered
She would not have cared to confess how infinitely she preferred the exactitude, the star-like impersonality, of figures to the confusion, agitation, and vagueness of the finest prose.
It is the nature of the artist to mind excessively what is said about him. Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.
This is not writing at all. Indeed, I could say that Shakespeare surpasses literature altogether, if I knew what I meant.