The power of grief to derange the mind has in fact been exhaustively noted.
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She did not use her poetry as prayer; she did not write to mollify God, to ward off evil; she wrote because she and she alone could find in religion the adventures of her utterly independent, endlessly speculative soul.
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The rich everyday exhort a part of their daily allowance from the poor not only by private fraud but by public law.
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The lesson in education was vital to these young men, who, within ten years, killed each other by scores in the act of testing their college conclusions.
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I conceive of poetry not so much as a matter of serene and disinterested choice but of action, and the very heat of choice, I think of the poem as a kind of action in which, if the poet can participate enough, other people cannot help participating as well.
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If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.
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For, like every act man commits, the drama is a struggle against his mortality, and meaning is the ultimate reward for having lived.
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She hated her grandmother and had hidden it from herself all these years under a cloak of pity.
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The urge of poetry is not, of course, to whoop it up for the automobile, the plane, the computer, and the space-ship, but only to bring them and their like into the felt world, where they may be variously taken, and establish their names in the vocabulary of imagination.
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And I could cry for the time I’ve wasted, but that’s a waste of time and tears, and I know just what I’d change if went back in time somehow, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
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In order for a ruling class to rule, there must be arbitrary prohibitions.
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We who are born into the world’s artificial system can never adequately know how little in our present state and circumstances is natural, and how much is merely the interpolation of the perverted mind and heart of man.
Compiled by Richard W. Bray
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