The cloud stood humbly in a corner of the sky， The morning crowned it with splendour。
白云谦卑地站在天边，晨光给它披上壮丽的光彩。
Philosophy ought really to be written only as a form of poetry.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Every piece I create is a question, not an answer.
A writer must be stubborn, must have a vocation of sacrifice, and must accept that literature is a very cruel mistress.