The fallen leaves in the forest seemed to make even the ground glow and burn with light
[Fitzgerald's] latter work represents essentially best qualities of chivalry and decency now too often lacking in the English themselves.
¿LE GUSTA ESTE JARDIN QUE ES SUYO? ¡EVITE QUE SUS HIJOS LODESTRUYAN!
Even almost bad poetry is better than life
Can't you see there's a determinism about the fate of nations? They all seem to get what they deserve in the long run.
The broken pink pillars, in the half-light, might have been waiting to fall down on him: the pool, covered with green scum, its steps torn away and hanging by one rotting clamp, to close over his head...
Love is the only thing which gives meaning to our poor ways on earth
What use were his talons and fangs to the dying tiger? In the clutches, say, to make matters worse, of a boa-constrictor? But apparently this improbable tiger had no intention of dying just yet. On th...
…Please let me make her happy, deliver me from this dreadful tyranny of self. I have sunk low. Let me sink lower still, that I may know the truth. Teach me to love again, to love life. That wouldn’t d...
I have no house only a shadow. But whenever you are in need of a shadow, my shadow is yours.
For with another part of his mind he felt the encroachment of a chilling fear, eclipsing all other feelings, that the thing they wanted was coming for him alone, before he was ready for it; it was a f...
He felt rather like someone lying in a bath after all the water has run out, witless, almost dead.
Perhaps his tragedy is that he is the only normal writer left on earth -- and it is this that adds to his isolation and so too his so sense of guilt.
When I should have been producing obscure volumes of verse entitled the Triumph of Humpty Dumpty or the Nose with the Luminous Dong! Or at best, like Clare, weaving fearful vision ... A frustrated poe...
Th soul! Ah, and did she not too have her savage and traitorous Tlaxcalans, her Cortés and her noches tristes, and, sitting within her innermost citadel in chains, drinking chocolate, her pale Moctezu...
I have resisted temptation for two and a half minutes at least: my redemption is sure.
Word
—I am the chief steward of my fate, I am the fireman of my soul.
Mira, Frijolillo -el Cónsul oía sus propias palabras-, tener en tu contra a Franco o a Hitler es una cosa, pero tener a Actinio, Argón, Berilio, Disprosio, Niobio, Paladio, Praseodimio...-Mira, Geoff....
Far above him a few white clouds were racing windily after a pale gibbous moon. Drink all morning, they said to him, drink all day. This is life!
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