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All the literati keep An imaginary friend.
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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Literary Critic
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Jórvík
Wystan Hugh Auden
Wystan Auden
Wystan H Auden
W. H. Wystan Hugh Auden
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More quotes by W. H. Auden
Most people enjoy the sight of their own handwriting as they enjoy the smell of their own farts.
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All the rest is silence On the other side of the wall, And the silence ripeness, And the ripeness all.
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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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There are bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair, Irregular verbs to learn, the Time Being to redeem From insignificance.
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I don't get acting jobs because of my looks.
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Nobody is ever sent to Hell: he or she insists on going there.
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The center that I cannot find is known to my unconscious mind.
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Machines are beneficial to the degree that they eliminate the need for labor, harmful to the degree that they eliminate the need for skill.
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Criticism should be a casual conversation.
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You owe it to all of us all get on with what you're good at.
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Time will say nothing but I told you so, Time only knows the price we have to pay If I could tell you I would let you know.
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A person incapable of imaging another world than given to him by his senses would be subhuman, and a person who identifies his imaginary world with the world of sensory fact has become insane.
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One can only blaspheme if one believes.
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Harrow the house of the dead look shining at New styles of architecture, a change of heart.
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We till shadowed days are done, We must weep and sing Duty's conscious wrong, The Devil in the clock
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Alone, alone, about the dreadful wood / Of conscious evil runs a lost mankind, / Dreading to find its Father.
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Herds of reindeer move across Miles and miles of golden moss
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In a game, just losing is almost as satisfying as just winning... In life the loser's score is always zero.
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Swans in the winter air A white perfection have
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Fame often makes a writer vain, but seldom makes him proud.
W. H. Auden