V.I. Arnold Quotes

Mind is buddha. This is not our brain; it's not our head.

Life for the living, and rest for the dead!

I love this simple maiden, She grows upon me more and more, And--ask the moon who 't was that kissed, Last night upon the shore!

I hold that all the evil we know on earth finds in this violence done to love its true and legitimate birth.

What rare days were those, When my chief duty was to write a song.

The glass of your life is darkened, and darkly through it you see distorted and ghastly fragments of duty and destiny.

I let my summer days pass idly on.

Experience is bitter, but its teachings we retain; It has taught me this--who once has loved, loves never on earth again!

He thought he was a wit, and he was half right.

The wise person questions himself, the fool others.

We don't know if we're dancing on the show until a couple of days before the show starts, let alone who their partners are before they meet them.

I do not believe today everything I believed yesterday I wonder will I believe tomorrow everything I believe today.

Fate gave, what Chance shall not control, His sad lucidity of soul.

And long we try in vain to speak and act Our hidden self, and what we say and do Is eloquent, is well -- but 'tis not true!

Not deep the poet sees, but wide.

Force and right are the governors of this world; force till right is ready.

To thee only God granted A heart ever new: To all always open; To all always true.

However, if I shall live to be eighty I shall probably be the only person left in England who reads anything but newspapers and scientific publications.

All the live murmur of a summer's day.

Is it so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun, to have lived light in the sky, to have loved, to have thought, to have done?

The power of the Latin classic is in character , that of the Greek is in beauty . Now character is capable of being taught, learnt, and assimilated: beauty hardly.

History - a vast Mississippi of falsehoods

Time, so complain'd of, Who to no one man Shows partiality, Brings round to all men Some undimm'd hours.

For poetry the idea is everything; the rest is a world of illusion.

Business could not make dull, nor passion wild; Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole.

Be neither saint nor sophist-led, but be a man.

Coleridge: poet and philosopher wrecked in a mist of opium.

Philistinism! - We have not the expression in English. Perhaps we have not the word because we have so much of the thing.

All knowledge is interesting to a wise man, and the knowledge of nature is interesting to all men.

Who hesitate and falter life away, and lose tomorrow the ground won today.

Tis not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And heart profoundly stirred; And weep, and feel the fullness of the past, The years that are not more.

I knew the mass of men conceal'd Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd They would by other men be met With blank indifference.

Ah! two desires toss about The poet's feverish blood; One drives him to the world without, And one to solitude.

Style ... is a peculiar recasting and heightening, under a certain condition of spiritual excitement, of what a man has to say, in such a manner as to add dignity and distinction to it.

Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below!

To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blamed the living man.

Time may restore us in his course Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force: But where will Europe's latter hour Again find Wordsworth's healing power?

Was Christ a man like us?-Ah! let us try If we then, too, can be such men as he!

But thou, my son, study to make prevail One colour in thy life, the hue of truth.

Everything in our political life tends to hide from us that there is anything wiser than our ordinary selves.

Inequality has the natural and necessary effect, under the present circumstances, of materializing our upper class, vulgarizing our middle class, and brutalizing our lower class.

Is it so small a thing To have enjoyed the sun.

I am a Liberal, yet I am a Liberal tempered by experience, reflexion, and renouncement, and I am, above all, a believer in culture.

And amongst us one, Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly His seat upon the intellectual throne.

Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; Where the salt weed sways in the stream.

O strong soul, by what shore Tarriest thou now? For that force, Surely, has not been left vain!

The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I.

Hither and thither spins The wind-borne mirroring soul, A thousand glimpses wins, And never sees a whole.

What really dissatisfies in American civilisation is the want of the interesting, a want due chiefly to the want of those two great elements of the interesting, which are elevation and beauty.

Religion is ethics heightened, enkindled, lit up by feeling