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All good art is in the nature of a letter written to amuse a sick friend. Too much art, particularly in our time, is only a letter written to oneself.

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
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
University Teacher
Writer
Jórvík
Wystan Hugh Auden
Wystan Auden
Wystan H Auden
W. H. Wystan Hugh Auden
Good
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Oneself
Sick
Friend
Written
Art
Amuse
Nature
Letter
Much
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Cathedrals, luxury liners laden with souls, Holding to the east their hulls of stone.
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The words of a dead man are modified in the guts of the living.
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The poet who writes free verse is like Robinson Crusoe on his desert island: he must do all his cooking, laundry and darning for himself. In a few exceptional cases, this manly independence produces something original and impressive, but more often the result is squalor - dirty sheets on the unmade bed and empty bottles on the unswept floor.
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The only way to spend New Year's Eve is either quietly with friends or in a brothel. Otherwise when the evening ends and people pair off, someone is bound to be left in tears.
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Man is a history-making creature, who can neither repeat his past, nor leave it behind.
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Blessed be all metrical rules that forbid automatic responses, force us to have second thoughts, free us from the fetters of Self.
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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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All sins tend to be addictive, and the terminal point of addiction is damnation.
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To make one, there must be two.
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There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police We must love one another or die.
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Marriage is rarely bliss But, surely it would be worse As particles to pelt At thousands of miles per sec About a universe In which a lover's kiss Would either not be felt Or break the loved one's neck.
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What living occasion can, Be just to the absent?
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Herds of reindeer move across Miles and miles of golden moss
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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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August for the people and their favourite islands. Daily the steamers sidle up to meet The effusive welcome of the pier.
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History marched to the drums of a clear idea...
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Poetry makes nothing happen.
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I just try to put the thing out and hope somebody will read it. Someone says: 'Whom do you write for?' I reply: 'Do you read me?' If they say 'Yes,' I say, 'Do you like it?' If they say 'No,' then I say, 'I don't write for you.'
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If there are any souls in hell, it is because that is where they insist on being.
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