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The law cannot forgive, for the law has not been wronged, only broken only persons can be wronged. The law can pardon, but it can only pardon what it has the power to punish.
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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Jórvík
Wystan Hugh Auden
Wystan Auden
Wystan H Auden
W. H. Wystan Hugh Auden
Law
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Forgive
Forgiving
Broken
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Poetry makes nothing happen.
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Money is the necessity that frees us from necessity.
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To be free is often to be lonely.
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Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links, Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks, Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.
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Those who hate to go to bed fear death those who hate to get up fear life.
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A daydream is a meal at which images are eaten. Some of us are gourmets, some gourmands, and a good many take their images precooked out of a can and swallow them down whole, absent-mindedly and with little relish.
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The center that I cannot find is known to my unconscious mind.
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Literary confessors are contemptible, like beggars who exhibit their sores for money, but not so contemptible as the public that buys their books.
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Sob, heavy world Sob as you spin, Mantled in mist Remote from the happy.
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Each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom.
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Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
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Say this city has ten million souls, Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes: Yet there’s no place for us, my dear, yet there’s no place for us.
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Sincerity is technique.
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The slogan of Hell: Eat or be eaten. The slogan of Heaven: Eat and be eaten.
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The countenances of children, like those of animals, are masks, not faces, for they have not yet developed a significant profile of their own.
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An unmanly sort of man whose love life seems to have been largely confined to crying in laps and playing mouse.
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Far from his illness The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests, The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays By mourning tongues The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
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Money cannot buy the fuel of love but is excellent kindling.
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Water is the soul of the Earth.
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The relation of faith between subject and object is unique in every case. Hundreds may believe, but each has to believe by himself.
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