WIST Quotations

Horace -- Epistles [Epistularum, Letters], Book 2, ep. 3 “Art of Poetry [Ars Poetica; To the Pisos],” l. 99ff (2.3.99-100) (19 BC) [tr. Palmer Bovie (1959)]

Dave — Fri, 03 Apr 2026 19:00:43 +0000

It isn’t enough for poems to be things of beauty:
Let them stun the hearer and lead his heart where they will.

[Non satis est pulchra esse poemata; dulcia sunto
Et, quocumque uolent, animum auditoris agunto.]

Horace (65–8 BC) Roman poet, satirist, soldier, politician [Quintus Horatius Flaccus]
Epistles [Epistularum, Letters], Book 2, ep. 3 “Art of Poetry [Ars Poetica; To the Pisos],” l. 99ff (2.3.99-100) (19 BC) [tr. Palmer Bovie (1959)]
(Source)

One of the most famous lines in the Ars Poetica.

(Source (Latin)). Other translations:

Not lore enough in Poesis, let them be sweetlye fynde,
And let them leade to where them liste the hearers plyante mynde.
[tr. Drant (1567)]

Tis not enough the labouring Muse affords
Her Poëms beauty, but a sweet delight,
To worke the hearers minds, still to the plight.
[tr. Jonson (1640); l. 140ff]

He that would have Spectators share his Grief,
Must write not only well, but movingly,
And raise Mens Passions to what height he will.
[tr. Roscommon (1680)]

'Tis not enough, ye writers, that ye charm
With ease and elegance; a play should warm
With soft concernment; should possess the soul,
And, as it wills, the listening crowd controul.
[tr. Francis (1747)]

'Tis not enough that Plays are polish'd, chaste,
Or trickt in all the harlotry of taste,
They must have passion too; beyond controul
Transporting where they please the hearer's soul.
[tr. Coleman (1783)]

'Tis not enough that poetry combine
All fancy's charms in every sounding line:
Empassion'd let her be, and melt at will
The soul to pity or with horror thrill.
[tr. Howes (1845)]

It is not enough that poems be beautiful; let them be tender and affecting, and bear away the soul of the auditor whithersoever they please.
[tr. Smart/Buckley (1853)]

Mere grace is not enough: a play should thrill
The hearer's soul, and move it at its will.
[tr. Conington (1874)]

Fine things won't make a drama: it must thrill
The hearers' souls, and sway them at its will.
[tr. Martin (1881)]

Nor is it enough that poems possess beauty in the construction. They must please and, in whatsoever direction they will, send there the feelings of the auditors.
[tr. Elgood (1893)]

Not enough is it for poems to have beauty: they must have charm, and lead the hearer's soul where they will.
[tr. Fairclough (Loeb) (1926)]

It is not enough for poems to be fine; they must charm, and draw the mind of the listener at will.
[tr. Blakeney; ed. Kramer, Jr. (1936)]

It isn't enough to make lines pretty; they must move,
and affect the hearer's soul exactly as the poet wants.
[tr. Fuchs (1977)]

Poems (oh)
can be (oh)
so beautiful
And (oh) so dull.
Poets need charm, too, to seduce our minds.
[tr. Raffel (1983 ed.)]

Sheer abstract beauty isn't enough in a poem;
Its language must so persuade the listener
And act upon his soul that he'll respond
As the poem intends.
[tr. Ferry (2001)]

Correctness is not enough in a poem; it must be attractive,
leading the listener's emotions in whatever way it wishes.
[tr. Rudd (2005 ed.)]

It’s not enough for poems to have beauty: they must have
Charm, leading their hearer’s heart wherever they wish.
[tr. Kline (2015)]

Marcus Aurelius -- Meditations [To Himself; Τὰ εἰς ἑαυτόν], Book 8, ch. 18 (8.18) (AD 161-180) [tr. Hard (1997 ed.)]

Dave — Wed, 15 Oct 2025 17:34:51 +0000

What has died does not fall out of the universe; and if it remains here, it is also transformed here and resolved into its constituent parts, which are the elements of the universe and of yourself. And these elements themselves are transformed and utter no complaint.

[Ἔξω τοῦ κόσμου τὸ ἀποθανὸν οὐ πίπτει. εἰ ὧδε μένει καὶ μεταβάλλει ὧδε καὶ διαλύεται εἰς τὰ ἴδια, ἃ στοιχεῖά ἐστι τοῦ κόσμου καὶ σά. καὶ αὐτὰ δὲ μεταβάλλει καὶ οὐ γογγύζει.]

Marcus Aurelius (AD 121-180) Roman emperor (161-180), Stoic philosopher
Meditations [To Himself; Τὰ εἰς ἑαυτόν], Book 8, ch. 18 (8.18) (AD 161-180) [tr. Hard (1997 ed.)]
(Source)

(Source (Greek)). Alternate translations:

Whatsoever dieth and falleth, however and wheresoever it die and fall, it cannot fall out of the world. here it have its abode and change, here also shall it have its dissolution into its proper elements. The same are the world's elements, and the elements of which thou dost consist. And they when they are changed, they murmur not; why shouldest thou?
[tr. Casaubon (1634), 8.16]

Whatever drops out of Life, is catch't up somewhere, for the World loses nothing. Within this Circumference of Corporeity, all things have their several Formes, and Revolutions ; And here 'tis likewise that they return into Element, and first Principle ; Under which Notion those of the World and your own, are the very same; And all these last Changes are made without the least Repining : And why then should the same Matter that lyes quiet in an Element, Grumble in a Man?
[tr. Collier (1701)]

What dies is not gone out of the verge of the universe. If that which is dissolved stays here, and is changed, it returns to those elements, of which the world and you too consist. These too are changed, and don’t murmur at it.
[tr. Hutcheson/Moor (1742)]

Nothing that dies, is lost to the universe, or annihilated. But, if it remains here, it undergoes some change, and is resolved into its proper elements. Now the same elements which compose the rest of the world make a part of your person; yet those undergo many changes, and do not murmur or repine.
[tr. Graves (1792)]

That which has died falls not out of the universe. If it stays here, it also changes here, and is dissolved into its proper parts, which are elements of the universe and of thyself. And these too change, and they murmur not.
[tr. Long (1862)]

Whatever drops out of life is somewhere, for the world loses nothing. If it stays here, it also changes here, and is dissolved into its proper parts, which are elements of the universe and of yourself. And these two change and do not complain.
[tr. Collier/Zimmern (1887)]

That which dies does not drop out of the universe. Here it bides, and here too it changes and is dispersed into its elements, the rudiments of the universe and of yourself. And they too change, and murmur not.
[tr. Rendall (1898)]

That which dies falls not out of the Universe. If then it stays here, here too it suffers a change, and is resolved into those elements of which the world, and you too, consist. These also are changed, and murmur not.
[tr. Hutcheson/Chrystal (1902)]

That which dies is not cast out of the Universe. As it remains here, it also suffers change here and is dissolved into its own constituents, which are the elements of the Universe and thy own. Yes, and they too suffer change and murmur not.
[tr. Haines (Loeb) (1916)]

What dies does not fall outside the Universe. If it remains here and changes here, it is also resolved here into the eternal constituents, which are elements of the Universe and of yourself. And the elements themselves change and make no grievance of it.
[tr. Farquharson (1944)]

That which dies does not drop out of the world. Here it remains; and here too, therefore, it changes and is resolved into its several particles; that is, into the elements which go to form the universe and yourself. They themselves likewise undergo change, and yet from them comes no complaint.
[tr. Staniforth (1964)]

What dies doesn’t vanish. It stays here in the world, transformed, dissolved, as parts of the world, and of you. Which are transformed in turn -- without grumbling.
[tr. Hays (2003)]

What dies does not pass out of the universe. If it remains here and is changed, then here too it is resolved into the everlasting constituents, which are the elements of the universe and of you yourself. These too change, and make no complaint of it.
[tr. Hammond (2006)]

What has died does not fall out of the universe; and if it remains here, it is also transformed here and resolved into its own constituents, which are the elements of the universe and of yourself. And these elements themselves are transformed and utter no complaint.
[tr. Hard (2011 ed.)]

Barrie, James -- Peter and Wendy, ch. 15 “‘Hook or Me This Time'” (1911)

Dave — Tue, 22 Apr 2025 18:08:51 +0000

What sort of form was Hook himself showing? Misguided man though he was, we may be glad, without sympathising with him, that in the end he was true to the traditions of his race. The other boys were flying around him now, flouting, scornful; and as he staggered about the deck striking up at them impotently, his mind was no longer with them; it was slouching in the playing fields of long ago, or being sent up for good, or watching the wall-game from a famous wall. And his shoes were right, and his waistcoat was right, and his tie was right, and his socks were right.
James Hook, thou not wholly unheroic figure, farewell.
For we have come to his last moment.
Seeing Peter slowly advancing upon him through the air with dagger poised, he sprang upon the bulwarks to cast himself into the sea. He did not know that the crocodile was waiting for him; for we purposely stopped the clock that this knowledge might be spared him: a little mark of respect from us at the end.
He had one last triumph, which I think we need not grudge him. As he stood on the bulwark looking over his shoulder at Peter gliding through the air, he invited him with a gesture to use his foot. It made Peter kick instead of stab.
At last Hook had got the boon for which he craved.
“Bad form,” he cried jeeringly, and went content to the crocodile.
Thus perished James Hook.

J. M. Barrie (1860-1937) Scottish novelist and dramatist [James Matthew Barrie]
Peter and Wendy, ch. 15 “‘Hook or Me This Time'” (1911)
(Source)

Hook's death scene is quite different in the 1928 published play, Peter Pan.

Martin, Judith -- Miss Manners’ Guide to Rearing Perfect Children, ch. 8 “Extra Credit,” “Ethics” (1984)

Dave — Mon, 13 Jan 2025 15:54:46 +0000

Form comes first in matters of class, and while one hopes that feeling will follow form, going through the form well without it is more acceptable, more classy if you will, than eschewing the form because the feeling isn’t there.

Judith Martin (b. 1938) American author, journalist, etiquette expert [a.k.a. Miss Manners]
Miss Manners’ Guide to Rearing Perfect Children, ch. 8 “Extra Credit,” “Ethics” (1984)
(Source)

Martial -- Epigrams [Epigrammata], Book 10, epigram 59 (10.59) (AD 95, 98 ed.) [tr. Michie (1972)]

Dave — Fri, 16 Sep 2022 23:11:48 +0000

If an epigram takes up a page, you skip it:
Art counts for nothing, you prefer the snippet.
The markets have been ransacked for you, reader,
Rich fare — and you want canapes instead!
I’m not concerned with the fastidious feeder:
Give me the man who likes his basic bread.

[Consumpta est uno si lemmate pagina, transis,
Et breviora tibi, non meliora placent.
Dives et ex omni posita est instructa macello
Cena tibi, sed te mattea sola iuvat.
Non opus est nobis nimium lectore guloso;
Hunc volo, non fiat qui sine pane satur.]

Martial (AD c.39-c.103) Spanish Roman poet, satirist, epigrammatist [Marcus Valerius Martialis]
Epigrams [Epigrammata], Book 10, epigram 59 (10.59) (AD 95, 98 ed.) [tr. Michie (1972)]
(Source)

(Source (Latin)). Alternate translations:

If one sole epigram takes up a page,
You turn it o'er, and will not there engage:
Consulting not its worth, but your dear ease;
And not what's good, but what is short, does please.
I serve a feast with all the richest fare
The market yields; for tarts you only care.
My books not fram'd such liq'rish guests to treat,
But such as relish bread, and solid meat.
[tr. Killigrew (1695)]

If one small theme exhaust a page,
'Though fli'st upon the wings of rage,
To fewer words, tho' not more fine;
And met'st my matter, by the line.
A rich repast, from ev'ry stall,
We see upon thy palate pall.
We fear a sickly appetite,
Where tid-bits onely can delight.
Out oh! may I receive no guest
Who picks the tiny for the best.
His taste wills tand him more to sted,
Who makes no meal up without bread.
[tr. Elphinston (1782), Book 3, ep. 11]

If one subject occupies a whole page, you pass over it; short epigrams, rather than good ones, seem to please you. A rich repast, consisting of every species of dish, is set before you, out only dainty bits gratify your taste. I do not covet a reader with such an over-nice palate; I want one that is not content to make a meal without bread.
[tr. Bohn's Classical (1859)]

You have no patience for the page-long skit,
Your taste is ruled by brevity, not wit.
Ransack the mart, make you a banquet rare,
You'll pick the titbit from the bill of fare;
I have no use for suchy a dainty guest;
Who ekes his dinner out with bread is best.
[tr. Street (1907)]

If a column is taken up by a single subject, you skip it, and the shorter epigrams please you, not the better. A meal, rich and furnished from every market, has been placed before you, but only a dainty attracts you. I have no need of a reader too nice: I want him who is not satisfied without bread.
[tr. Ker (1919)]

You like the shortest poems, not the best,
Tis those you always read -- and skip the rest;
I spread a varied banquet for your taste,
You take made dishes and the rest you waste.
And wrong your appetite, for truth to tell
A satisfying meal needs bread as well.
[tr. Pott & Wright (1921)]

You've read one epigram; the rest you skip;
Shortness, not sweetness suits your censorship.
A whole rich mart's outspread before your feet;
And yet a small tit-bit's your only treat.
I want no gluttonous reader, no, indeed!
Still I prefer one who on bread can feed.
[tr. Francis & Tatum (1924) ep. 554]

If a poem of mine fills up a page,
You pass it by. You'd rather read
The shorter, not the better ones.
A fear to answer every need,
Rich and varied, and supplied
With many viands widely drawn
From every shop is offered you,
And yet you glance at it with scorn,
The dainties only pleasing you.
Fussy reader, away! Instead
Give me a guest who with his meal
Must have some homely peasant bread.
[tr. Marcellino (1968)]

If a page is used up with a single title, you pass it by; you like the shorter items, not the better ones. A sumptuous dinner furnished from every market is served you, but you care only for a tidbit. I don't want a reader with too fine a palate; give me the man who doesn't feel full without bread.
[tr. Shackleton Bailey (1993)]

A whole damned page crammed with verse -- so you yawn!
If a poem's too long you move swiftly on;
"Shorter the better!" is your golden rule.
But markets are scoured to make the tongue drool;
A groaning board's set -- rich sauces for days --
And yet, dear reader, you want canapés?
But I don't hunger for diners so prude:
Hail meat and potatoes -- screw finger food!
[tr. Schmidgall (2001)]

If just one poem fills a page, you skip it.
The short ones please you, not the best. I serve
a lavish dinner culled from every market,
but you are only pleased with the hors d'oeuvre.
A finicky reader's not for me; instead,
I want one who's not full without some bread.
[tr. McLean (2014)]

Lessing, Doris -- Particularly Cats, ch. 2 (1967)

Dave — Tue, 11 May 2021 18:13:03 +0000

If a fish is the movement of water embodied, given shape, then cat is a diagram and pattern of subtle air.

Doris Lessing (1919-2013) British author, biographer, playwright [b. Doris May Tayler]
Particularly Cats, ch. 2 (1967)
(Source)

Flaubert, Gustave -- Letter to Louise Colet (12 Aug 1846)

Dave — Thu, 19 Mar 2020 17:25:12 +0000

One must not always think that feeling is everything. Art is nothing without form.

Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880) French writer, novelist
Letter to Louise Colet (12 Aug 1846)
(Source)

Frost, Robert -- (Attributed)

Dave — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 10:06:03 +0000

There are two types of realist. There is the one who offers a good deal of dirt with his potato to show that it is a real one, and the one who is satisfied with the potato brushed clean. I’m inclined to be the second kind. […] To me, the thing that art does for life is to clean it, to strip it to form.

Robert Frost (1874-1963) American poet
(Attributed)
(Source)

Answering a letter as to whether he would prefer to be classed as a Realist, a Classicist, or a Regionalist. Quoted in Louis Untermeyer (ed.), Modern American Poetry, "Robert Frost" (1921 ed.). Untermeyer, a long-time friend of Frost's, included this quotation in all the biographical sketches he wrote for different poetry anthologies. I cannot find a primary source.