Literature Quotes

The only truth is that we cannot speak the truth . The only acceptable viewpoint is that we cannot express a viewpoint.

What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?

A person who knows nothing about literature may be an ignoramus, but many people don't mind being that.

Here we are in the century of information, that is to say the unformed. Every kind of literature will be journalistic, with a science for ballast.

Copywriters, journalists, mainstream authors, ghostwriters, bloggers and advertising creatives have as much right to think of themselves as good writers as academics, poets, or literary novelists.

Perhaps the truth is that heavy literature blooms in extremes of temperature.

Is it foolish to care for non-existent folk?Then, leave me to my foolishness.

Maybe it was that nearly everyone else was dead and she felt a little bit dead too, but she figured that even a vampire deserved to be saved. Maybe she ought to leave him, but she wasn't going to.

Keep going' she told herself, 'Don't look back.' But she looked anyways.

I ask of literature precisely those things of which I feel the lack in my own life.

Writing means being a fascinated slave to current events.

Literature is a mountain made of gold in this poor world!

Hardship is vanishing, but so is style, and the two are more closely connected than the present generation supposes.

An unfinished book. left unattended, turns feral, and she would need all her focus, will and ruthless determination to tame it again.

In literature, you either create a classical or create a foam! There is no in between!

Then you look at her and smile a smile your dissembling face will remember until the day you die. Baby, you say, baby, this is part of my novel. This is how you lose her.

Literature is the only art in which the audience performs the score.

He will understand when it is too late that it is easier to love.

What you gain here, you lose on the other side.

Long ago we conquered our passions looking at ourselves in the mirror of eternity.

In greatness, life and death merge.

From one bell all the bells toll.

Long ago an uncalled rain fell and a called-upon God stayed equally distant.

One hand I extend into myself, the other toward others.

I travel, always arriving in the same place.

We will go far away, to nowhere, to conquer, to fertilize until we become tired. Then we will stop and there will be our home.

Through everything I have passed but nowhere I have been.

All dust is the same dust. Temporarily separated To go peacefully And enjoy the eternal nap.

And this that you call solitude is in fact a big crowd.

Life eats life to live.

Mathematics doesn’t care about those beyond the numbers.

Death swallows death.

In the biggest and the smallest I sleep but at the same place I stay.

From what you didn’t say, lies that you did say.

The farther away, the closer the home becomes.

There is nobody to wake up eternal seekers.

You are hurrying to the sweet place, To the nonsense chasing your spirit And in the nonsense you look for answers.

With your goal you make the one.

When within yourself you find the road, the right road will open.

In every sound, the hidden silence sleeps.

When I want to be reminded of stupidity, especially my own, I turn on the TV.

Based on the law of probability Everything is possible because The sheer existence of possibility Confirms the existence Of impossibility.

In an endless silence even screams sound silent.

To not say all that can be said is the secret of discipline and economy.

To go against the grain is the secret of bravery.

When all is lost, there is still a memory.

If you are only what you are, You at least have a chance Not to outsmart, But be on a par with yourself And that is worth trying.

I fly through memory to find a newborn love.

Why poetry, you ask? Because of life, I answer.

Oblivion cures the old wounds.