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“Always give without remembering and always receive without forgetting.”
― Brian Tracy

“Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.”
― William Blake, Songs of Innocence and of Experience

“(about William Blake)

As for Blake's happiness--a man who knew him said: "If asked whether I ever knew among the intellectual, a happy man, Blake would be the only one who would immediately occur to me."

And yet this creative power in Blake did not come from ambition. ...He burned most of his own work. Because he said, "I should be sorry if I had any earthly fame, for whatever natural glory a man has is so much detracted from his spiritual glory. I wish to do nothing for profit. I wish to live for art. I want nothing whatever. I am quite happy."

...He did not mind death in the least. He said that to him it was just like going into another room. On the day of his death he composed songs to his Maker and sang them for his wife to hear. Just before he died his countenance became fair, his eyes brightened and he burst into singing of the things he saw in heaven. ”
― Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit

“Remember William Blake who said: "Improvement makes straight, straight roads, but the crooked roads without improvement are roads of genius."

The truth is, life itself, is always startling, strange, unexpected. But when the truth is told about it everybody knows at once that it is life itself and not made up.

But in ordinary fiction, movies, etc, everything is smoothed out to seem plausible--villains made bad, heroes splendid, heroines glamorous, and so on, so that no one believes a word”
― Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit

“William Blake says the body is 'that portion of soul discerned by the five senses”
― Marion Woodman, Conscious Femininity: Interviews With Marion Woodman

“She fed him scraps from her ragbag because words were all that were left now. Perhaps he could use them to pay the ferryman. Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold. The world is charged with the grandeur of God. Full fathom five thy father lies. Little lamb, who made thee? Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie. On that best portion of a good man's life, his little nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love. Farther and farther, all the birds of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

The air rippled and shimmered. Time narrowed to a pinpoint. It was about to happen. Because the Holy Ghost over the bent world broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.”
― Kate Atkinson, A God in Ruins

“It is as though we are understanding now what (William) Blake intuited, the senses were, in Eden, spread over the whole being. It might seem, then, that our bodies still live in Eden, but our minds refuse to know it.”
― Peter Redgrove, The Black Goddess and the Unseen Real: Our Uncommon Senses and Their Common Sense

“Blake said Milton was a true poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it. I am of the Devil's party and know it.”
― Philip Pullman

“Pity would be no more
If we did not make somebody Poor;
And Mercy no more could be
If all were as happy as we.

And mutual fear brings peace,
Till the selfish loves increase:
Then Cruelty knits a snare
And spreads his baits with care.

He sits down with holy fears
And waters the ground with tears:
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.

Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head,
And the Catterpiller and Fly
Feed on the Mystery.

And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat,
And the Raven his nest has made
In its thickest shade.

The Gods of the earth and sea
Sought thro' Nature to find this Tree,
But their search was all in vain:
There grows one in the Human Brain.”
― William Blake, Songs of Innocence and of Experience

“Did he who made the lamb make thee?”
― William Blake, The Tyger

“Love seeketh not Itself to please
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.'

So sung a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:

'Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.”
― William Blake, Songs of Innocence and Experience

“The soul of sweet delight can never be defiled.”
― William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell & Poems

“To him, perpetual thought of death was a sin. Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.”
― Saul Bellow, Herzog

“All that we saw was owing to your metaphysics.”
― William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

“Everything engravers do gets printed opposite. The engraver has to be able to see it both ways.”
― Tracy Chevalier, Burning Bright

“I dried my tears, and armed my fears
With ten-thousand shields and spears”
― William Blake, William Blake : Songs of Innocence, and Songs of Experience

“Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smiled among the winter’s snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe”
― William Blake, William Blake : Songs of Innocence, and Songs of Experience

“O little Cloud," the virgin said, "I charge thee tell to me,
Why thou complainest not when in one hour thou fade away:
Then we shall seek thee but not find; ah, Thel is like to Thee.
I pass away, yet I complain, and no one hears my voice."

The Cloud then shew'd his golden head & his bright form emerg'd,
Hovering and glittering on the air before the face of Thel.”
― William Blake, The Book of Thel

“For Mercy has a human heart
Pity a human face
And Love, the human form divine
And Peace, the human dress”
― William Blake, William Blake : Songs of Innocence, and Songs of Experience

“The death of Jesus set me free
Then what have I to do with thee?”
― William Blake, William Blake : Songs of Innocence, and Songs of Experience

“To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand”
― William Blake, Illustrated Poems of William Blake

“My mother is very like William Blake, she has visions and dreams and she cannot always distinguish a flea's head from a king. Luckily she can't paint.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit

“Lei insegna all’università, vero? E quindi conosce William Blake.â€� “Sì, lo conosco un poâ€�. Più come artista che come scrittore, a essere sincera.â€� “Quella sua poesia, Jerusalem... è molto bella, ma mi sconcerta.â€� “Come mai?â€� “And was Jerusalem builded here. Dice così, no? Ma non esiste la parola ‘buildedâ€�. Non è la parola giusta.â€� “No, non lo è, ma ‘buildedâ€� funziona meglio in quel verso.â€� Mr Hu ci rifletté su e poi sorrise con ammirazione. “Vede, è questo che mi piace degli inglesi. Tutti vi credono un popolo affidabile, conservatore. Ma poi rompete sempre le regole. Se vi serve per ottenere ciò che volete, non vi fate alcun problema.â€� Rise felice. “Persino William Blake l’ha fatto.”
― Jonathan Coe, Middle England

“Blake was right. They're a force of nature, like a hurricane or an earthquake.'
Rose's smile faded as she registered the intensity of Jake's stare as he watched the tiger. It was as if he was trying to take in more about the animal than normal sight could give, trying to fit the essence of the thing through senses that weren't up to the task.
'Burning bright!' Jake whispered, nodding.”
― K. Valisumbra, Mortlake and Other Stories

“In every way, we inhabit the Noosphere, the domain of nous, of mind. This cosmic Noosphere is evolving. Powerful minds are shaping it, making it perfect. One day, it will be transformed into Golgonooza, Blake’s wondrous City of the Imagination. Once enough people are illuminated, its light will shine brighter than all the suns put together. It will illuminate the whole universe. It will be inhabited by glittering Gods, and they shall call it heaven.”
― Mike Hockney, The Noosphere

“Underhill saw Sorrowmouth stooped in the doorway with his bowl and thorn, mottled skin burnished gold in the lamp glow, beady eyes beseeching him. Underhill nodded and he dipped his head under the doorframe and into the room, towering over both Underhill and Mary. Mary continued, her words beginning to slur.
“I think, no, I know that if I didn’t have my beliefs, you know my absolute belief in, well, in angels, guardian angels, all around us, around me, I wouldn’t have gotten through these last few weeks.�
She glanced up, beyond where Sorrowmouth’s face hung like a stiff mask in the cloud of cigarette smoke, and saw something else entirely. She closed her eyes and smiled an entirely benign smile at the very notion of her personal angels. There were some crude and disappointingly prosaic paintings on the wall around the fire of them floating in the air, their wings outstretched, lit up with a golden glow that Underhill remembered like the tattered fragments of an ancient dream. Angels looking over babies in cradles. Angels hovering above the Earth, showering it with their benevolent light.
Sorrowmouth finally pricked at the woman’s grief with his thorn until it seemed to bleed furious moonlight. Chaotic swirls of black and silver and red convulsing in the air around them. He gathered it all into his upturned bowl and began to sup at it like an eager dog.”
― Simon Avery, Sorrowmouth

“Underhill had to fight with himself to remain in place. But something was already changing inside him. Something that had become familiar in the last year or so. He could feel the world subtly reordering itself as his father walked away; that strange feeling that he sometimes had and couldn’t explain, not even to himself, so certainly not to his mother or anyone else. But he couldn’t acknowledge it right now; he was afraid that if he didn’t know his way home, he might wander lost in unfamiliar neighbourhoods until the end of time; he might end up in a different country altogether. Soon Underhill couldn’t even hear his father’s footsteps but the panic subsided, and the world gradually began to settle around him, changing little by little, soft and gentle and pliant, like his mother’s embrace. He could hear the insect drone of a languid summer day and the silence of a Christmas Eve wrapped in snow. It tranquillised him. He looked up to find the buildings were all changed and very distant from him, like looking through the wrong end of a telescope. They were lit up from within with an incandescent golden light. They were like cathedrals floating in a changed sky; all the dreamy colours of a place where words ran out and art took over.”
― Simon Avery, Sorrowmouth

“The tree that moves some to tears of joy is to others a green thing that stands in the way. - William Blake”
― Jake Eagle LPC, The Power of Awe: Overcome Burnout & Anxiety, Ease Chronic Pain, Find Clarity & Purpose―In Less Than 1 Minute Per Day