How sublime Upon a time-blanch’d cliff to muse, and, while The eagle glories in a sea of air, To mingle with the scene around! - Survey The sun-warm heaven.

Home, the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.

If you are lucky enough to be a success, by all means enjoy the applause and the adulation of the public. But never, never believe it.

And Thou, vast Ocean! on whole awful face Time's iron feet can print no ruin trace.

My advice to you concerning applause is this: enjoy it but never quite believe it

Are you really listening... or are you just waiting for your turn to talk?

There's nothing terrible in death; 'Tis but to cast our robes away, And sleep at night, without a breath To break repose till dawn of day.

As o'er the stormy sea of human Life We sail, until our anchor'd spirits rest In the far haven of Eternity.

The solitary monk who shook the world From pagan slumber, when the gospel trump Thunder' d its challenge from his dauntless lips In peals of truth.

Earth, air, and ocean, glorious three.

So we said to ourselves, if we can remove antibodies from someone who's in the middle of a terrible rejection, and save those kidneys, then we should be able to remove them before surgery

There was, I think, a prevailingimpression common to the provincial mind, that his misfortune wasthe result of the defective moral quality of his being a stranger.

The prompt assimilation of that intelligence will be essential if we are to avoid another September 11th.

Anyone who has read my books will know that I don't tend to use guides when I am travelling. It's not a pride thing, but it is certainly a fact.

A bigot is simply a sociologist without credentials.

By a curious confusion, many modern critics have passed from the proposition that a masterpiece may be unpopular to the other proposition that unless it is unpopular it cannot be a masterpiece.

Many of my books have begun with the title, because naming a work already in progress makes no sense to me.

After my first No. 1 song back in 2006, I worried I may never have another one.

Combinatorialists and analysts always have different names for everything, in order to keep themselves from interacting.

Adultery breathes new life into marriages which have been left for dead.

The Same, the Same: friend and foe are of one stuff; the ploughman, the plough, and the furrow, are of one stuff; and the stuff is such, and so much, that the variations of form are unimportant.