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Let all your thinks be thanks.

W. H. Auden

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W. H. Auden
Age: 66 †
Born: 1907
Born: February 21
Died: 1973
Died: September 28
Author
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Essayist
Librettist
Literary Critic
Literary Historian
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Writer
Jórvík
Wystan Hugh Auden
Wystan Auden
Wystan H Auden
W. H. Wystan Hugh Auden
Thanks
Thinks
Thinking

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All I have is a voice.
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Detective stories have nothing to do with works of art.
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But once in a while the odd thing happens Once in a while the dream comes true And the whole pattern of life is altered Once in a while, the moon turns blue
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The older lives like not to be stood in rows or at right angles.
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Slavery is so intolerable a condition that the slave can hardly escape deluding himself into thinking that he is choosing to obey his master's commands when, in fact, he is obliged to. Most slaves of habit suffer from this delusion and so do some writers, enslaved by an all too personal style.
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Out on the lawn I lie in bed, Vega conspicuous overhead.
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A god who is both self-sufficient and content to remain so could not interest us enough to raise the question of his existence.
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Sincerity is technique.
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Young people, who are still uncertain of their identity, often try on a succession of masks in the hope of finding the one which suits them - the one, in fact, which is not a mask.
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The theater has never been any good since the actors became gentlemen.
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It takes little talent to see what lies under one's nose, a good deal to know in what direction to point that organ.
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What the poet says has never been said before, but, once he has said it, his readers recognize its validity for themselves.
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All pity is self-pity.
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the child unlucky in his little State, Some hearth where freedom is excluded, A hive whose honey is fear and worry, Feels calmer now and somehow assured of escape
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The windiest militant trash Important Persons shout Is not so crude as our wish: What mad Nijinsky wrote About Diaghilev Is true of the normal heart For the error bred in the bone Of each woman and each man Craves what it cannot have Not universal love But to be loved alone.
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As a rule, it was the pleasure-haters who became unjust.
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Defenceless under the night Our world in stupor lies Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame.
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Soft as the earth is mankind and both need to be altered.
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Art is born of humiliation.
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A man is a form of life that dreams in order to act and acts in order to dream.
W. H. Auden