
(29th March 1823) Song - What was our parting ?—one wild kiss,
The London Literary Gazette, 1823
Nature's Coinage; reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 495.
(29th March 1823) Song - What was our parting ?—one wild kiss,
The London Literary Gazette, 1823
The Earthly Paradise (1868-70), The Lady of the Land
Context: What man art thou that thus hast wandered here,
And found this lonely chamber where I dwell?
Beware, beware! for I have many a spell;
If greed of power and gold have led thee on,
Not lightly shall this untold wealth be won.
But if thou com'st here knowing of my tale,
In hope to bear away my body fair,
Stout must thine heart be, nor shall that avail
If thou a wicked soul in thee dost bear;
So once again I bid thee to beware,
Because no base man things like this may see,
And live thereafter long and happily.
Source: De architectura (The Ten Books On Architecture) (~ 15BC), Book I, Chapter IV "The Site of a City" Sec. 1
“Books - the best antidote against the marsh-gas of boredom and vacuity”
Glimpses of Bengal http://www.spiritualbee.com/tagore-book-of-letters/ (1921)
“Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.”
“And Chaucer, with his infantine
Familiar clasp of things divine.”
A Vision of Poets (1844)
“We are reading for our lives, not performing like seals for some fresh fish.”
Acceptance speech http://www.bookcritics.org/?go=leonardAcceptanceSpeech, National Book Critics Circle 2006 Ivan Sandrof Lifetime Achievement Award (8 March 2007)
Context: My whole life I have been waving the names of writers, as if we needed rescue. From these writers, for almost 50 years, I have received narrative, witness, companionship, sanctuary, shock, and steely strangeness; good advice, bad news, deep chords, hurtful discrepancy, and amazing grace. At an average of five books a week, not counting all those sighed at and nibbled on before they go to the Strand, I will read 13,000. Then I'm dead. Thirteen thousand in a lifetime, about as many as there are new ones published every month in this country.
It's not enough, and yet rich to excess. The books we love, love us back. In gratitude, we should promise not to cheat on them — not to pretend we're better than they are; not to use them as target practice, agit-prop, trampolines, photo ops or stalking horses; not to sell out scruple to that scratch-and-sniff info-tainment racket in which we posture in front of experience instead of engaging it, and fidget in our cynical opportunism for an angle, a spin, or a take, instead of consulting compass points of principle, and strike attitudes like matches, to admire our wiseguy profiles in the mirrors of the slicks. We are reading for our lives, not performing like seals for some fresh fish.