欧宝娱乐

“The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.”
― Helen Bevington, When Found, Make a Verse of

“The mind is a universe and can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”
― John Milton

“I do strongly feel that among the greatest pieces of luck for high achievement is ordeal. Certain great artists can make out without it, Titian and others, but mostly you need ordeal. My idea is this: the artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point, he's in business: Beethoven's deafness, Goya's deafness, Milton's blindness, that kind of thing.”
― John Berryman

“The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels & God, and at liberty when of Devils & Hell, is because he was a true Poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it.”
― William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

“They changed their minds, Flew off, and into strange vagaries fell.”
― John Milton

“The portraits, of more historical than artistic interest, had gone; and tapestry, full of the blue and bronze of peacocks, fell over the doors, and shut out all history and activity untouched with beauty and peace; and now when I looked at my Crevelli and pondered on the rose in the hand of the Virgin, wherein the form was so delicate and precise that it seemed more like a thought than a flower, or at the grey dawn and rapturous faces of my Francesca, I knew all a Christian's ecstasy without his slavery to rule and custom; when I pondered over the antique bronze gods and goddesses, which I had mortgaged my house to buy, I had all a pagan's delight in various beauty and without his terror at sleepless destiny and his labour with many sacrifices; and I had only to go to my bookshelf, where every book was bound in leather, stamped with intricate ornament, and of a carefully chosen colour: Shakespeare in the orange of the glory of the world, Dante in the dull red of his anger, Milton in the blue grey of his formal calm; and I could experience what I would of human passions without their bitterness and without satiety. I had gathered about me all gods because I believed in none, and experienced every pleasure because I gave myself to none, but held myself apart, individual, indissoluble, a mirror of polished steel: I looked in the triumph of this imagination at the birds of Hera, glowing in the firelight as though they were wrought of jewels; and to my mind, for which symbolism was a necessity, they seemed the doorkeepers of my world, shutting out all that was not of as affluent a beauty as their own; and for a moment I thought as I had thought in so many other moments, that it was possible to rob life of every bitterness except the bitterness of death; and then a thought which had followed this thought, time after time, filled me with a passionate sorrow.”
― W.B. Yeats, Rosa Alchemica

“The Prologue to TERRITORY LOST

"Of cats' first disobedience, and the height
Of that forbidden tree whose doom'd ascent
Brought man into the world to help us down
And made us subject to his moods and whims,
For though we may have knock'd an apple loose
As we were carried safely to the ground,
We never said to eat th'accursed thing,
But yet with him were exiled from our place
With loss of hosts of sweet celestial mice
And toothsome baby birds of paradise,
And so were sent to stray across the earth
And suffer dogs, until some greater Cat
Restore us, and regain the blissful yard,
Sing, heavenly Mews, that on the ancient banks
Of Egypt's sacred river didst inspire
That pharaoh who first taught the sons of men
To worship members of our feline breed:
Instruct me in th'unfolding of my tale;
Make fast my grasp upon my theme's dark threads
That undistracted save by naps and snacks
I may o'ercome our native reticence
And justify the ways of cats to men.”
― Henry N. Beard, Poetry for Cats: The Definitive Anthology of Distinguished Feline Verse

“Whose but his own? ingrate, he had of mee
All he could have; I made him just and right,
Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
Such I created all th鈥� Ethereal Powers
And Spirits, both them who stood and them who fail鈥檇;
Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.
Not free, what proof could they have giv鈥檔 sincere
Of true allegiance, constant Faith or Love,
Where only what they needs must do, appear鈥檇,
Not what they would? what praise could they receive?
What pleasure I from such obedience paid,
When Will and Reason (Reason also is choice)
Useless and vain, of freedom both despoil鈥檇,
Made passive both, had served necessity,
Not mee. They therefore as to right belong鈥檇,
So were created, nor can justly accuse
Thir maker, or thir making, or thir Fate;
As if Predestination over-rul鈥檇
Thir will, dispos鈥檇 by absolute Decree
Or high foreknowledge; they themselves decreed
Thir own revolt, not I; if I foreknew
Foreknowledge had no influence on their fault,
Which had no less prov鈥檇 certain unforeknown.
So without least impulse or shadow of Fate,
Or aught by me immutable foreseen,
They trespass, Authors to themselves in all
Both what they judge and what they choose; for so
I form鈥檇 them free, and free they must remain,
Till they enthrall themselves: I else must change
Thir nature, and revoke the high Decree
Unchangeable, Eternal, which ordain鈥檇
Thir freedom: they themselves ordain鈥檇 thir fall.”
― John Milton, Complete Poems and Major Prose

“I saw a lot of men die there. Most men. Do you know what killed them?鈥濃€︹€滵espair,鈥� said Finney. 鈥淭hey believed themselves to be prisoners. I lived with those men, ate the same maggot-infested food, slept in the same beds, did the same back-breaking work. But they died and I lived. Do you know why?鈥� 鈥淵ou were free.鈥� 鈥淚 was free. Milton was right鈥he mind is its own place. I was never a prisoner. Not then, not now.”
― Louise Penny, A Rule Against Murder

“Father, I do acknowledge and confess
That I this honor, I this pomp have brought
To Dagon, and advanc鈥檇 his praises high
among the Heathen round; to God have brought
Dishonor, obloquy, and op鈥檇 the mouths
Of Idolists, and Atheists
[鈥The anguish of my Soul, that suffers not
Mine eye to harbor sleep, or thoughts to rest.
This only hope relieves me, that the strife
With mee hath end.”
― John Milton, Complete Poems and Major Prose

“So spake the enemy of mankind, enclosed
In serpent, inmate bad! and toward Eve
Addressed his way: not with indented wave,
Prone on the ground, as since; but on his rear,
Circular base of rising folds, that towered
Fold above fold, a surging maze! his head
Crested aloft, and carbuncle his eyes;
With burnished neck of verdant gold, erect
Amidst his circling spires, that on the grass
Floated redundant: pleasing was his shape
And lovely; never since of serpent-kind
尝辞惫别濒颈别谤鈥�&谤诲辩耻辞;
― John Milton, Paradise Lost

“I love everything that flows,鈥� said the great blind Milton of our times. I was thinking of him this morning when I awoke with a great bloody shout of joy: I was thinking of his rivers and trees and all that world of night which he is exploring. Yes, I said to myself, I too love everything that flows: rivers, sewers, lava, semen, blood, bile, words, sentences. I love the amniotic fluid when it spills out of the bag. I love the kidney with it鈥檚 painful gall-stones, its gravel and what-not; I love the urine that pours out scalding and the clap that runs endlessly; I love the words of hysterics and the sentences that flow on like dysentery and mirror all the sick images of the soul...”
― Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer

“Satan & Adam are States Created into Twenty-seven Churches
And thou O Milton art a state about to be created
Called Eternal Annihilation that none but the Living shall
Dare to enter: & they shall enter triumphant over Death
And Hell & the Grave: States that are not, but ah! Seem to be.

Judge then of thy Own Self: thy Eternal Lineaments explore
What is Eternal & what Changeable & what Annihilable:
The Imagination is not a State: it is the Human Existence itself
Affection or Love becomes a State, when divided from Imagination
The Memory is a State always, & the Reason is a State
Created to be Annihilated & a new Ratio Created
Whatever can be Created can be Annihilated Forms cannot
The Oak is cut down by the Ax, the Lamb falls by the knife
But their Forms Eternal Exist, For-ever.
Amen Hallelujah”
― William Blake, Milton: A Poem

“Dark vaild Cotytto, t鈥� whom the secret flame
Of mid-night Torches burns; mysterious Dame
That ne鈥檙e art call鈥檇, but when the Dragon woom
Of Stygian darknes spets her thickest gloom,
And makes one blot of all the ayr”
― John Milton, Milton's Comus

“All that can best be expressed in words should be expressed in verse, but verse is a slow thing to create; nay, it is not really created: it is a secretion of the mind, it is a pearl that gathers round some irritant and slowly expresses the very essence of beauty and of desire that has lain long, potential and unexpressed, in the mind of the man who secretes it. God knows that this Unknown Country has been hit off in verse a hundred times...

Milton does it so well in the Fourth Book of Paradise Lost that I defy any man of a sane understanding to read the whole of that book before going to bed and not to wake up next morning as though he had been on a journey.”
― Hilaire Belloc, On Anything

“Era successo proprio all鈥檃ltezza dell鈥檜ltimo ciliegio. Lei aveva attraversato il vialetto ed era entrata nel prato oltre i ciliegi. Si era sdraiata, sebbene vestisse di bianco e l鈥檈rba non fosse pi霉 tiepida. Si era raccolta nelle mani a conca la nuca e le trecce e fissava il sole. Ma come lui accenn貌 ad entrare nel prato grid貌 di no. 芦Resta dove sei. Appoggiati al tronco del ciliegio. Cos矛禄. Poi, guardando il sole, disse: 芦Sei brutto禄. Milton assent矛 con gli occhi e lei riprese: 芦Hai occhi stupendi, la bocca bella, una bellissima mano, ma complessivamente sei brutto禄. Gir貌 impercettibilmente la testa verso lui e disse: 芦Ma non sei poi cos矛 brutto. Come fanno a dire che sei brutto?”
― Beppe Fenoglio, Una questione privata

“Scatt貌 tutta la testa verso di lui e disse: 芦Come comincerai la tua prossima lettera? Fulvia dannazione?禄 Lui aveva scosso la testa, frusciando i capelli contro la corteccia del ciliegio.
Fulvia si affann貌. 芦Vuoi dire che non ci sar脿 una prossima lettera?禄 芦Semplicemente che non la comincer貌 Fulvia dannazione. Non temere, per le lettere. Mi rendo conto. Non possiamo pi霉 farne ameno. Io di scrivertele e tu di riceverle禄.”
― Beppe Fenoglio, Una questione privata

“Whom hast thou then, or what, to accuse,
but heaven's free love dealt equally t'all?”
― John Milton, Paradise Lost

“Nor love thy life, nor hate; but what thou liv'st
Live well, how long or short permit to Heaven.”
― John Milton, Paradise Lost

“Then I had the good of my reading,鈥� he explained presently. 鈥淚 had no books; the pastor spoke but little English, and all his books were foreign; but I used to say over all I could remember. The old poets little knew what comfort they could be to a man. I was well acquainted with the works of Milton, but up there it did seem to me as if Shakespeare was the king; he has his sea terms very accurate, and some beautiful passages were calming to the mind. I could say them over until I shed tears; there was nothing beautiful to me in that place but the stars above and those passages of verse.”
― Sarah Orne Jewett, The Country of the Pointed Firs

“There was a time we all fought against each other; we never took care of our nature. What do we fight for today? We don鈥檛 have any belief in faith or something like that anymore. All living beings must come together and help restore the balance of the world! - Shafiq”
― Abhishek Ghosh, The Paradise Conflict

“But the mind is its own place, as Milton said, it can make a Hell of Heaven and a Heaven of Hell. How does it do that? By remembering, or forgetting. The only tricks a mind can play.”
― Sara Collins

“We cannot, in literature, any more than in the rest of life, live in a perpetual state of revolution. If every generation of poets made it their task to bring poetic diction up to date with the spoken language, poetry would fail in one of its most important obligations. For poetry should help, not only to refine the language of the time, but to prevent it from changing too rapidly : a development of language at too great a speed would be a development in the sense of a progressive deterioration, and that is our danger to-day. If the poetry of the rest of this century takes the line of development which seems to me, reviewing the progress of poetry through the last three centuries, the right course, it will discover new and more elaborate patterns of a diction now established.”
― T.S. Eliot, Milton: Two Studies

“Hypocrisy, Milton wrote, is 鈥渢he only evil that walks Invisible, except to God alone.鈥� To ensure that 鈥渘either Man nor Angel can discern鈥� the evil is, nonetheless, a demanding vocation. Pascal had discussed it a few years earlier while recording 鈥渉ow the casuists reconcile the contrarieties between their opinions and the decisions of the popes, the councils, and the Scripture.鈥� 鈥淥ne of the methods in which we reconcile these contradictions,鈥� his casuist interlocutor explains, 鈥渋s by the interpretation of some phrase.鈥� Thus, if the Gospel says, 鈥淕ive alms of your superfluity,鈥� and the task is 鈥渢o discharge the wealthiest from the obligation of alms-giving,鈥� 鈥渢he matter is easily put to rights by giving such an interpretation to the word superfluity that it will seldom or never happen that any one is troubled with such an article.鈥� Learned scholars demonstrate that 鈥渨hat men of the world lay up to improve their circumstances, or those of their relatives, cannot be termed superfluity; and accordingly, such a thing as superfluity is seldom to be found among men of the world, not even excepting kings鈥濃€攏owadays, we call it tax reform. We may, then, adhere faithfully to the preachings of the Gospel that 鈥渢he rich are bound to give alms of their superfluity,鈥� [though] it will seldom or never happen to be obligatory in practice.鈥� 鈥淭here you see the utility of interpretations,鈥� he concludes.”
― Noam Chomsky, Necessary Illusions: Thought Control in Democratic Societies

“The hidden beauties of standard authors break upon the mind by surprise. It is like discovering a secret spring in an old jewel. You take up the book in an idle moment, as you have done a thousand times before, perhaps wondering, as you turn over the leaves, what the world finds in it to admire, when suddenly, as you read, your fingers press close upon the covers, your frame thrills, and the passage you have chanced upon chains you like a spell,鈥攊t is so vividly true and beautiful. Milton鈥檚 鈥楥omus鈥� flashed upon me in this way. I never could read the 鈥楻ape of the Lock鈥� till a friend quoted some passages from it during a walk. I know no more exquisite sensation than this warming of the heart to an old author; and it seems to me that the most delicious portion of intellectual existence is the brief period in which, one by one, the great minds of old are admitted with all their time-mellowed worth to the affections.”
― Nathaniel Parker Willis

“I love everything that flows,鈥� said the great blind Milton of our times. I was thinking of him this morning when I awoke with a great bloody shout of joy: I was thinking of his rivers and trees and all that world of night which he is exploring. Yes, I said to myself, I too love everything that flows: rivers, sewers, lava, semen, blood, bile, words, sentences. I love the amniotic fluid when it spills out of the bag. I love the kidney with it鈥檚 painful gall-stones, it鈥檚 gravel and what-not; I love the urine that pours out scalding and the clap that runs endlessly; I love the words of hysterics and the sentences that flow on like dysentery and mirror all the sick images of the soul...”
― Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer

“One has to find the integrity and develop moral responsibility to build Mother Nature back to its roots.”
― Abhishek Ghosh, The Paradise Conflict

“If there is attachment to all, there wouldn鈥檛 be any conflict. They keep the conflicts continue鈥︹€� - Judy”
― Abhishek Ghosh, The Paradise Conflict

“I found what I was looking for and not to be part of this pathetic regime anymore!鈥� - Mitra”
― Abhishek Ghosh, The Paradise Conflict

“MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! Raise us up, return to us again,
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power!”
― William Wordsworth, London, 1802