As writers and readers, as sinners and citizens, our realism and our aesthetic sense make us wary of crediting the positive note.

No place in the world prides itself more on its vigilance and realism, no place considers itself more qualified to censure any flourish of rhetoric or extravagance of aspiration.

The kinds of truth that art gives us many, many times are small truths. They don't have the resonance of an encyclical from the Pope stating an eternal truth, but they partake of the quality of eternity. There is a sort of timeless delight in them.

If you have the words, there's always a chance that you'll find the way.

If poetry and the arts do anything, they can fortify your inner life, your inwardness.

If you go into an underground train in London - probably anywhere, but chiefly in London - there's that sense of almost entering a ghostly dimension. People are very still and quiet; they don't exchange many pleasantries.