Three Worlds, Three Summers — But Not the Summer Just Past (1949).
Context: One might think, to hear some people talk, that this had been a particularly fine summer. From their point of view, I suppose, it has. They have rushed about the lakes in noisy little boats; they have permitted themselves to be dragged behind other little boats, standing more or less upright on ironing boards; they have immersed themselves in lakes into which countless summer cottage privies drain; they have laboriously pursued summer flirtations, and some of them have achieved gritty conquests on the sands; they have sat in hot little boats waiting to catch fish which they have then had to eat; they have passed many hours changing their skins from pinkish-drab to brown, erroneously believing that they are "storing up sunshine" against the winter months; they have motored penitential distances; they have taken thousands of feet of film of people whose names they will not be able to remember in November. They have amused themselves after their fashion, and I have no quarrel with them.
“O but it is a fine thing to have a finger pointed at one, and to hear people say, "That's the man!"”
Satire I, line 28.
The Satires
Original
At pulchrum est digito monstrari et dicier "hic est".
Help us to complete the source, original and additional information
Persius 12
ancient latin poet 34–62Related quotes
Diogenes, 6.
The Lives and Opinions of Eminent Philosophers (c. 200 A.D.), Book 6: The Cynics
“A fine quotation is a diamond on the finger of a man of wit, and a pebble in the hand of a fool.”
Part 1, LXXIV
Meditations of a Parish Priest (1866)
My Life in Court (1961), p. 115.
quoted by Nancy Mowll Mathews, in Mary Cassatt: A Life, Villard Books, New York, 1994, p. 76 - ISBN 978-0-394-58497-3
Quote, c. 1871 - shortly after the archbishop of Pittsburgh commissioned Mary Cassatt to paint two copies of paintings by Correggio in Parma, Italy
“O learn to read what silent love hath writ: To hear with eyes belongs to love´s fine wit.”
Source: Sonnet XXIII
Context: As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love’s right,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
O’ercharged with burthen of mine own love’s might.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast;
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.
"Notes on Translation", in The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 202, No. 5 (November 1958), p. 109