There's no jealousy in the grave.
There is no money in poetry, but then there is no poetry in money either.
The remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he really is very good, in spite of all the people who say he is very good.
You! You tricked me! I never want to see you or that bottle of liquid arsenic again!†I chucked the empty moonshine jug at him. Or tried to. It missed him by a dozen feet. He picked it up in astonishment. “You drank the whole bloody thing? You were only supposed to have a few sips!†“Did you say that? Did you?†He reached me just as I felt the ground tip. “Didn’t say anything. I’ve got those names, so that’s all that matters, but you men…you’re all alike. Alive, dead, undead—all perverts! I had a drunken pervert in my pants! Do you know how unsanitary that is?†Bones held me upright. I would have protested, but I couldn’t remember how to. “What are you saying?†“Winston poltergeisted my panties, that’s what!†I announced with a loud hiccup. “Why, you scurvy, lecherous spook!†Bones yelled in the direction of the cemetery. “If my pipes still worked, I’d go right back there and piss on your grave!
Every English poet should master the rules of grammar before he attempts to bend or break them.
In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity, is the vital thing.
The paths of glory at least lead to the grave, but the paths of duty may not get you any where.
When I die of heart failure the next time you frighten me like that, you can put that on my gravestone —‘I didn’t mean to startle her
God has placed no limits to the exercise of the intellect he has given us, on this side of the grave.