I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections, Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling, Or just after.

True villains are extremely photogenic.

All the great things have been denied and we live in an intricacy of new and local mythologies, political, economic, poetic, which are asserted with an ever-enlarging incoherence.

The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

The imagination is one of the forces of nature.

Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.

The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.

The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.

I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.

It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.

Maybe I write because I’ve learned to show certain parts of my heart on the page that I still struggle to capture in speech.

In the true man there is a child concealed - who wants to play.

There is a design behind the world that we are living in, which is veiled to most of us most of the time, but every once in a while, you catch a glimpse of it.

In fact, as far as one can tell, Obama seems to have killed more civilians during his first year than Bush did in his first year, and maybe even than Bush killed in his final year.

He who stands like a pilar dies in battle. He who bends like a reed is triumphant!

Buried under the biggest burden is a good place to find an even bigger blessing.

That's kind of what we have here. I think we've just grown apart, we have different philosophies, and we're going in different directions.

On the road, as a 'rock star,' there's superficial attention and adulation is thrown at you for a couple of hours - then you're alone in your room and it's lonely.

Few can remember clearly when innocence came to a sudden end, the moment at which we ask for the first time: Am I loved?

The ladies--Heaven bless them!--are, as a general rule, coquettes from babyhood upwards.