Memory Itself Is An Internal Rumour.

I Have No Axe To Grind; Only My Thoughts To Burnish.

A Grateful Environment Is A Substitute For Happiness. It Can Quicken Us From Without As A Fixed Hope And Affection, Or As The Consciousness Of A Right Life, Can Quicken Us From Within.

Poetry Is An Attenuation, A Rehandling, An Echo Of Crude Experience; It Is Itself A Theoretic Vision Of Things At Arm's Length.

The Existence Of Any Evil Anywhere At Any Time Absolutely Ruins A Total Optimism.

If Pain Could Have Cured Us We Should Long Ago Have Been Saved.