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All sins tend to be addictive, and the terminal point of addiction is damnation.
W. H. Auden
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W. H. Auden
Age: 66 †
Born: 1907
Born: February 21
Died: 1973
Died: September 28
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Wystan Hugh Auden
Wystan Auden
Wystan H Auden
W. H. Wystan Hugh Auden
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More quotes by W. H. Auden
For time is inches And the heart's changes, Where ghost has haunted Lost and wanted.
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In headaches and in worry Vaguely life leaks away, And Time will have his fancy To-morrow or today.
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A professor is someone who talks in someone else's sleep.
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Let us honor if we can the vertical man, though we value none but the horizontal one
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In addition to English, at least one ancient language, probably Greek or Hebrew, and two modern languages would be required.
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Precisely because we do not communicate by singing, a song can be out of place but not out of character it is just as credible that a stupid person should sing beautifully as that a clever person should do so.
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Cats can be very funny, and have the oddest ways of showing they're glad to see you.
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Art is born of humiliation.
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Every American poet feels that the whole responsibility for contemporary poetry has fallen upon his shoulders, that he is a literary aristocracy of one.
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It's a pity I am so impatient and careless, as any ordinary person could learn all the techniques of photography in a week. It is the democratic art, i.e. technical skill is practically eliminated - the more foolproof cameras become with focusing and exposure gadgets the better - and artistic quality depends only on choice of subject.
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The parlour cars and Pullmans are packed also with scented assassins, salad-eaters who murder on milk.
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Fate succumbs many a species: one alone jeopardises itself.
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I know nothing, except what everyone knows - if there when Grace dances, I should dance.
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One rational voice is dumb: over a grave The household of Impulse mourns one dearly loved. Sad is Eros, builder of cities, And weeping anarchic Aphrodite.
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Swans in the winter air A white perfection have
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God may reduce you on Judgment Day to tears of shame, reciting by heart the poems you would have written, had your life been good.
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Thousands have lived without love, not one without water.
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Long ago the accusations had begun, And suddenly knew by whom it had been judged
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There must always be two kinds of art: escape-art, for man needs escape as he needs food and deep sleep, and parable-art, that art which shall teach man to unlearn hatred and learn love.
W. H. Auden
