In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet, because language itself is poetry. – Owen Barfield — Philip Zaleski, The Fellowship: The Literary Lives of the Inklings: J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Owen Barfield, Charles Williams
In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet, because language itself is poetry. – Owen Barfield — Philip Zaleski, The Fellowship: The Literary Lives of the Inklings: J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Owen Barfield, Charles Williams
In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet, because language itself is poetry. – Owen Barfield — Philip Zaleski, The Fellowship: The Literary Lives of the Inklings: J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Owen Barfield, Charles Williams
In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet, because language itself is poetry. – Owen Barfield — Philip Zaleski, The Fellowship: The Literary Lives of the Inklings: J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Owen Barfield, Charles Williams
In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet, because language itself is poetry. – Owen Barfield — Philip Zaleski, The Fellowship: The Literary Lives of the Inklings: J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Owen Barfield, Charles Williams
Download Customize

In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet, because language itself is poetry. – Owen Barfield

— Philip Zaleski, The Fellowship: The Literary Lives of the Inklings: J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Owen Barfield, Charles Williams
Pin Share Tweet Telegram
Topics
imagery motivation vocabulary word choice

More “Imagery” Quotes

Biju stepped out of the airport into the Calcutta night, warm, mammalian. His feet sank into dust winnowed to softness a — Kiran Desai, The Inheritance of Loss
But soon the poltergeist ran out of ideas in connection with Aunt Maud and became, as it were, more eclectic. All the ba — Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire
This culture of distraction was nothing new. Christianity was born into one. — Mark Sayers, Facing Leviathan: Leadership, Influence, and Creating in a Cultural Storm
Because, of course, it wouldn't do to just talk to her. She had spoken to him in flashes of daylight, and he felt he oug — Joe Hill
Kept dreaming of this spot she had on her neck, this tiny country. I wanted to visit, to paint a picture of what I found — Cath Crowley, Graffiti Moon
She is so distinct to me, it's as though I had run my hands all over her. — Franz Kafka
What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord?Or to the dreadful summit of the cliffThat beetles o'er his base into the — William Shakespeare, Hamlet
itt was snowing as if you could hear wolves howling — Dick Allen, Zen Master Poems
The weather was clear and still, and the countless stars opened above them, seeming like brilliant cold fruits that Maer — Alison Croggon, The Riddle
A mud-stained sunlight began to splatter the sodden fields, and the hateful, nasal world of birds began to come to life. — Blaise Cendrars, Moravagine
I walked along the shore in the morning light, the winds have slept in the arms of dawn after crying all night. — Ipsit Bibhudarshi, Heart's Call
James was sixteen, Cam seventeen, perhaps. She had looked round for someone who was not there, for Mrs. Ramsay, presumab — Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse