The lack of a sense of history is the damnation of the modern world.

Everything seems an echo of something else.

I think the greatest curse of American society has been the idea of an easy millennialism -- that some new drug, or the next election or the latest in social engineering will solve everything.

Maybe a man has to sell his soul to get the power to do good.

The image that fiction presents is purged of the distractions, confusions and accidents of ordinary life.

Historical sense and poetic sense should not, in the end, be contradictory, for if poetry is the little myth we make, history is the big myth we live, and in our living, constantly remake.

Goodness . . . You got to make it out of badness . . . Because there isn't anything else to make it out of.

The poem . . . is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful. And in the end, the poem is not a thing we see-it is, rather, a light by which we may see-and what we see is life.

It is human defect — to try to know oneself by the self of another.

You have to make the good out of the bad because that is all you have got to make it out of.

If you look at a thing, the very fact of your looking changes it...if you think about yourself, that very fact changes you.

I was with Shaq at his home the day he retired. It was innovative for him to become the media and announce via social media that he was retiring.

And then she had to fill out so many forms she forgot why she had come and what she had left behind.

Evaluating the benefits and drawbacks of any relaitonship is your responsibility. You do not have to passively accept what is brought to you. You can choose.

I love Kathy Griffin, I think she's brilliant, but for me, there is a line when I go OK, that's too much.

I could not stop for death and he did not stop for me.

Popular religion is a coping mechanism for the anxieties of a dysfunctional social and economic environment.

Forgive, forget, learn the lesson and move forward!

Through the chill of December the early winter moans... but it's that January wind that rattles old bones.

Some automatic device clicked in her big brain, and her knees felt weak, and there was a chilly feeling in her stomach. She was in love with this man. They don't make memories like that anymore

Pleasures don't last like the snow falls in the river, a moment white - then melts for ever.