Academia Aesthetic Quotes

Autumn is a poem - while you fall for everything, you remember that there is something worth dying for.

We were never supposed to be in love; for everything that exists inside a heart eventually dies.

They danced wildly in the forest, swaying with the tall trees and the howling wind.

We always hide something of ourselves whenever we create something.

While we kept on dancing our souls delicately embraced.

I can not be a part of myself - for everything that creates my soul incompletes my heart.

Beautiful things are quiet beings.

What we outlive becomes our cage eventually.

A reverie is one soul's river - a word is one heart's vein.

Everything dies once - only love dies twice.

I kept every letter - only to be reminded of the wrong one's words can cause.

There is no crown without guilt.

There is no crown without guilt - and there is no mercy without a kingdom.

A crown is heavy without mercy - and yet the darkness painted the gold with jewels.

Silver may paint your words - but gold speaks in a way that outlives the greatest poets.

And our own darkness became our kingdom; while the light burnt up each one of our hearts as an act of mercy and revolt - for nothing is build on ashes and too much is written about the fallen ones.

School of Resentment is a term coined by critic Harold Bloom to describe related schools of literary criticism which have gained prominence in academia since the 1970s and which Bloom contends are preoccupied with political and social activism at the expense of aesthetic values.[1] Broadly, Bloom terms "Schools of Resentment" approaches associated with Marxist critical theory, including African American studies, Marxist literary criticism, New Historicist criticism, feminist criticism, and poststructuralism—specifically as promoted by Jacques Lacan, Jacques Derrida and Michel Foucault. The School of Resentment is usually defined as all scholars who wish to enlarge the Western canon by adding to it more works by authors from minority groups without regard to aesthetic merit and/or influence over time, or those who argue that some works commonly thought canonical promote sexist, racist or otherwise biased values and should therefore be removed from the canon. Bloom contends that the School of Resentment threatens the nature of the canon itself and may lead to its eventual demise. Philosopher Richard Rorty[2] agreed that Bloom is at least partly accurate in describing the School of Resentment, writing that those identified by Bloom do in fact routinely use "subversive, oppositional discourse" to attack the canon specifically and Western culture in general.

I kept every letter - only to be remembered of the wrong one's words can cause (to the heart).

Love is too much for our generation.

I dared to dance along broken lines and I cut myself once again - only to rewrite your words with meaning.

Some break their hearts themselves only to be healed of the wrong love faster.

Don't ever let the scars on your heart define the way you love. 

Time means nothing when you are in love.

You can only hold onto a soul forever when you touched it with all your heart.

My love is so fragile; and still it chooses your hands to bloom.

Those deserted lines of love and pain  kept your love wandering  - and by that alive -  so that one day  some restless thought  would stumble upon your eternity.

And the home we build for our love ended up keeping it out of its own walls.

Everything outside of our mind is endless - so why limit oneself?

I wrote so much about our love that the feeling itself turned into art.

We can rest on each other's hearts - yet our dreams keep on wondering. 

While we keep on dancing our souls delicately embrace.

You can not create something without love and expect it to be great.

Forgetting someone you once loved: it’s like erasing something of yourself forever -freely; Being someone else for a second that will change a lifetime. You let go. You feel lost. You will love again.

When I was young, I only painted flowers; Once I became older I learnt that flowers meant hope. We give them when we meet someone for the first time, and we give them to bury someone as a final goodbye.

What our love dreads the most is the fear of never loving - not the thought of following the wrong heart.

She lived with too many ghosts inside her mind - maybe that's why she became one herself in the end.

A sea of unspoken words; waiting for a reason to meet the shore for the first time.

Love is a delicate suffering.

Some hearts will never burn as bright as the memories do.

I missed so many chances to meet the right one by missing you too much.

The most beautiful solitude I ever felt was when I got lost  in something I once loved.

Let your love bleed all over those pages;  in the end, all it can be is a work of art  (- but never a mistake).

Some bury their feelings  in the hope that flowers bloom; (and too many of us die  while waiting forever).

The mountains fell in love  with the sky -  while knowing the ocean  is much nearer;  and still,  they loved it the same.

Simple feelings surviving while everything else breaks so fast - touching the edges  just to feel something.

I wanted to write about someone I miss -  and even the ink refused to remember - so, in the end, I was left  with nothing but empty pages; with the greatest words in my mind.

It is okay if you change every once in a while; even the sky needs to let go of its stars to give the sun a home for a while.

I'm trapped in a Salvador Dali painting

Hues of pale green, on delicate olive branches the soft rustling of somberness along the fields of gold that lay themselves to gentle rest after another long summer. I have nothing to bury under them except my own heart -that is my soul's greatest regret, once my lines begin to fill in autumn, under the velvet gloom of shortening days. The admiration of the Florentine sun had doomed my words to become eventually a remembrance once September falls in October's pale hands. I shall have nothing to grieve for once the winter arrives, coming over the distant hills and laying bare the orchards along his way. I doomed them to become ruins by overthinking, hoping - at least once too often - for change; So, let it be then. I will mourn my mere passion for life in the presence of death - though my art may be eternal.

Memories are not always a prison - sometimes they can be a key too.

While others feared the ghosts of the past, she fell in love with them.

Art completes our hearts.

The meadows lay weeping with tears like an emeralds gleam; while every nightingale is seeking the shelter of its only willow's green. - And silently, my step falls on leaves that carry me much further than I'd dream; for willows and thoughts are fading slowly while everything eternal is not seen and yet they keep so many of us in good company for some can not be on their own, nor can they be free. - So I found peace, the one eternal each one seeks and so I left my soul for emerald's gleam; while the meadow still lays weeping with grief over my grave so quietly for it lays beneath the shadow of its only willow's green.

Shallow are the hearts that bloom beside empty dreams.

Champagne lips and tired eyes under endless velvet skies — a love living only for the highs.

And between all  those eternities you realise that art & love my be the only things  that stay long enough  inside one's soul to make an impression.

It may baffle outsiders why poets would be so ingratiating, since there is no audience to ingratiate us to. That is because the poet's audience is the institution. We rely on the higher jurisdiction of academia, prize jury panels, and fellowships to gain social capital. A poet's precious avenue for mainstream success is through an award system dependent on the painstaking compromise of a jury panel, which can often guarantee that the anointed book will be free of aesthetic or political risk.