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The sea is everything. It covers seven tenths of the terrestrial globe. Its breath is pure and healthy. It is an immense desert, where man is never lonely, for he feels life stirring on all sides.
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The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits.
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The selection of a subject is to the author what choice of position is to the general,–once skilfully determined, the battle is already half won. Of a few writers it may be said that they are popular in despite of their subjects–but of a great many more it may be observed that they are popular because of them.
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The sky was clear — remarkably clear — and the twinkling of all the stars seemed to be but throbs of one body, timed by a common pulse.
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The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea.
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The starred and stately nights seemed haughty dames in jewelled velvets, nursing at home in lonely pride, the memory of their absent conquering Earls, the golden helmeted suns!
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The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but except the obvious remark that it was gruesome, as, on Christmas Eve in an old house, a strange tale should essentially be . . .
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The struggle of literature is in fact a struggle to escape from the confines of language; it stretches out from the utmost limits of what can be said; what stirs literature is the call and attraction of what is not in the dictionary.
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The term science should not be given to anything but the aggregate of the recipes that are always successful. All the rest is literature.
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The themes Poe used were universal and timeless. As long as the English language exists at all, we will be able to appreciate what he did. It will not age! It will not become dated!
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The thing that teases the mind over and over for years, and at last gets itself put down rightly on paper – whether little or great, it belongs to Literature
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The trains roared by like projectiles level on the darkness, fuming and burning, making the valley clang with their passage. They were gone, and the lights of the towns and villages glittered in silence.
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The tree rustled. It had made music before they were born, and would continue after their deaths, but its song was of the moment.
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The true pleasure of life is to live with your inferiors.
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The walls are the publishers of the poor.
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The wicked are wicked, no doubt, and they go astray and they fall, and they come by their deserts: but who can tell the mischief which the very virtuous do?
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The world is a looking-glass, and gives back to every man the reflection of his own face. Frown at it, and it will in turn look sourly upon you; laugh at it and with it, and it is a jolly kind companion; and so let all young persons take their choice.
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The writer in western civilization has become not a voice of his tribe, but of his individuality. This is a very narrow-minded situation.
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The writing of a poem is like a child throwing stones into a mineshaft. You compose first, then you listen for the reverberation.’ James Fenton
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The writings of women are always cold and pretty like themselves. There is as much wit as you may desire, but never any soul.
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