Quotes to inspire and reflect

The writer’s life seethes within but not without.

Writers are really people who write books not because they are poor, but because they are dissatisfied with the books which they could buy but do not like.

No poet or novelist wishes he were the only one who ever lived, but most of them wish they were the only one alive, and quite a number fondly believe their wish has been granted.

The writer’s greed is appalling. He wants, or seems to want, everything and practically everybody; in another sense, and at the same time, he needs no one at all.

In relation to a writer, most readers believe in the Double Standard: they may be unfaithful to him as often as they like, but he must never, never be unfaithful to them.

For the creation of a master-work of literature two powers must concur, the power of the man and the power of the moment.

The worship of God is not a rule of safety—it is an adventure of the spirit, a flight after the unattainable.

The universal object and idol of men of letters is reputation.

God prefers bad verses recited with a pure heart, to the finest verses possible chanted by the wicked.

We adore, we invoke, we seek to appease, only that which we fear.

He worships God who knows him.

God waits to win back his own flowers as gifts from man’s hands.

Does not every true man feel that he is himself made higher by doing reverence to what is really above him?

Every idol, however exalted, turns out, in the long run, to be a Moloch, hungry for human sacrifice.

Heathen, n. A benighted creature who has the folly to worship something that he can see and feel.

The beauty of the world which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.

“To what end was this world formed?" said Candide. “To infuriate us,” replied Martin.

For in and out, above, about, below, / Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show, / Played in a Box whose Candle is the Sun, / Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

The unrest which keeps the never stopping clock of metaphysics going is the thought that the nonexistence of this world is just as possible as its existence.

The world goes on because a few men in every generation believe in it utterly, accept it unquestion- ingly; they underwrite it with their lives.

Books are a world in themselves, it is true; but they are not the only world. The world itself is a volume larger than all the libraries in it.

The world is a fine place and worth the fighting for and I hate very much to leave it.

The world is a bride of surpassing beauty—but remember that this maiden is never bound to anyone.

That cold accretion called the world, so terrible in the mass, is so unformidable, even pitiable, in its units.

The world only exists in your eyes—your conception of it. You can make it as big or as small as you want to.

The world, as a rule, does not live on beaches and in country clubs.

The world is a great volume, and man the index of that book; even in the body of man, you may turn to the whole world.

What’s wrong with this world is, it’s not finished yet. It is not completed to that point where man can put his final signature to the job and say, "It is finished. We made it, and it works.”

The world is a bundle of hay, / Mankind are the asses who pull; / Each tugs it a different way,— / And the greatest of all is John Bull!

This world, after all our science and sciences, is still a miracle; wonderful, inscrutable, magical and more, to whosoever will think of it.

The world is a gambling-table so arranged that all who enter the casino must play and all must lose more or less heavily in the long run, though they win occasionally by the way.

Ah, love, let us be true / To one another! for the world, which seems / To lie before us like a land of dreams, / So various, so beautiful, so new, / Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, / Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.

A good horse should be seldom spurred.

The really efficient laborer will be found not to crowd his day with work, but will saunter to his task surrounded by a wide halo of ease and leisure.

Before feminism, work was largely defined as what men did or would do. Thus, a working woman was someone who labored outside the home for money, masculine-style.

Those who work much do not work hard.

It is only by labour that thought can be made healthy) and only by thought that labour can be made happy, and the two cannot be separated with impunity.

One can’t be happy as I have been for very long. There’s a law against it. I have worked hard and enjoyed my work and it is the punishment of man to hate his work. Sooner or later I will have work that I hate.

Constant labor of one uniform kind destroys the intensity and flow of a man’s animal spirits, which find recreation and delight in mere change of activity.

How Sunday into Monday melts!

a great many people / who spend their time mourning / over the brevity of life / could make it seem longer / if they did a little more work.

Thou, O God, dost sell us all good things at the price of labor.

The world is sown with good; but unless I turn my glad thoughts into practical living and till my own field, I cannot reap a kernel of the good.

Work is prayer. Work is also stink. Therefore stink is prayer.

It is weariness to keep toiling at the same things so that one becomes ruled by them.

To labour is the lot of man below; / And when Jove gave us life, he gave us woe.

One of the saddest things is that the only thing a man can do for eight hours a day, day after day, is work. You can’t eat eight hours a day nor drink for eight hours a day nor make love for eight hours.

All work is empty save when there is love.