1996年，藏书楼、大核心车站（）、和纽约客杂志（）成破一个委员会，由文学专家跟图书馆员从重要的文学作品当选出主要或有影响力的字句。而后他们请雕刻家格瑞哥?乐非（Gregg LeFevre）根据每句话的内容和作家的作风，设计、雕刻奇特的铜牌，装置在第五大道和公园大道之间的41街地面。1998年竣工并获奖。2003年，纽约市长彭博和市议会把这段路正式命名为「图书馆之道」。下面是我拍到的一些金句，除了?永的文句，雕刻家Gregg LeFevre 的雕刻也极具巧思。我尽量翻译了一些，但才干不足，译几句头脑就开端打结了，剩下的看哪位友人有兴致持续吧。假如译得错误，也欢送指教。（有些句子不拍到，那些没有附部落格网址的相片都是在网上看到借过来的）。
The knowledge of different literatures frees one from the tyranny of a few. (意识不同的文学让人免于受少数的宰制 - 荷西?玛弟（对于王尔德）。
(1853-1895) “On Oscar Wilde”
A great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading it.
All things are words of some strange tongue, in thrall
To Someone, Something, who both day and night
Proceeds in endless gibberish to write
The history of the world. In that dark scrawl
Rome is set down, and Carthage, I, you, all,
And this my being which escapes me quite,
My anguished life that's cryptic, recondite,
And garbled in the tongues of Babel's fall.
(1899-1986) “” (translated by Richard Wilbur)
Truth exists. Only falsehood has to be invented. （真理（永远）存在，只有虚假需要发明）。
Everything is only for a day, both that which remembers and that which is remembered. （每件事都只为了一天，不管是记得的仍是被记得的）。
Those of you, lost and yearning to be free,
who hear these words, take heart from me.
I was once in as many drafts as you.
But briefly, essentially, here I am...
Who touches this poem touches a woman.
(1950- ) “”
Writing your name can lead to writing sentences. And the next thing you'll be doing is writing paragraphs, and then books. And then you'll be in as much trouble as I am!
(1915-2004) and (1918-1994)
Where the press is free and every man able to read, all is safe.
（有出版自在，人人能够阅读的处所，所有人都是保险的。 – 汤玛士?杰佛?）
The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong winds. （在猛攻传统和成见的平原上方漫游的鸟必需有强劲的风）。
For all books are divisible into two classes,tm88.com韩国赌场, the books of the hour, and the books of all time. Mark this distinction—it is not one of quality only. It is not merely the bad book that does not last, and the good one that does. It is a distinction of species. There are good books for the hour, and good ones for all time; bad books for the hour, and bad ones for all time.
...the reading of good books is like a conversation with the best men of past centuries— （读一本好书像和从前几世纪最聪慧的人进行一次对话 – 狄卡尔）
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
(1865-1939) From “”
I don't know which is more discouraging, literature or chickens.
If you do not tell the truth about yourself, you cannot tell it about other people. （如果你不能鉴别实在的自己，就不能分辨别人的虚实）。
I love the old melodious lays
Which softly melt the ages through,
The songs of Spenser's golden days,
Arcadian Sidney's silver phrase,
Sprinkling on our noon of time with freshest morning dew.
they ask me to remember
but they want me to remember
and i keep on remembering
(1936- ) “”
Nature and art, being two different things, cannot be the same thing. Through art we express our conception of what nature is not.
A word is dead
When it is said,
I say it just
Begins to live
When there is much desire to learn, there of necessity will be much arguing, much writing, many opinions; for opinion in good persons is but knowledge in the making.
A poem doesn't do everything for you.
You are supposed to go on with your thinking.
You are supposed to enrich
the other person's poem with your extensions,
your uniquely personal understandings,
thus making the poem serve you.
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendos,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
I want everybody to be smart. As smart as they can be. A world full of ignorant people is too dangerous to live in.
People work much in order to secure the future; I gave my mind much work and trouble, trying to secure the past.
In the reading room in the New York Public Library
All sorts of souls were bent over silence reading the past,
Or the present, or maybe it was the future, patrons
Devoted to silence and the flowering of the imagination...
All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you; the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was. If you can get so that you can give that to people, then you are a writer.
“” Esquire, December 1934
There are words like Freedom
Sweet and wonderful to say.
On my heart-strings freedom sings
All day everyday.
There are words like Liberty
That almost make me cry.
If you had known what I knew
You would know why.
Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.
The rose fades
and is renewed again
by its seed, naturally
save in the poem
shall it go
to suffer no diminution
of its splendor.
Dr. Rieux resolved to compile this chronicle, so that he should not be one of those who hold their peace but should bear witness in favor of those plague stricken people; so that some memorial of the injustice and outrage done them might endure; and to state quite simply what we learn in time of pestilence: that there are more things to admire in men than to despise.
“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said, in a rather scornful tone, “it means just what I chose it to mean — neither more nor less.”
“The question is,” said Alice, “whether you can make words mean so many different things.”
“The question is,” said Humpty Dumpty, “which is to be master — that's all.”
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.
Vladimer: What do they say?
Estragon: They talk about their lives.
Vladimer: To have lived is not enough for them.
Estragon: They have to talk about it.
Vladimer: To be dead is not enough for them.
Estragon: It is not sufficient.
...At the end of an hour we saw a far-away town sleeping in a valley by a winding river; and beyond it on a hill, a vast gray fortress, with towers and turrets, the first I had ever seen out of a picture.
"Bridgeport?" said I, pointing.
"Camelot," said he.
The universe is made of stories, not atoms.
Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations.
Now, on my heart's page
there is no grid to guide my hand,
no character to trace,
only the moisture,
the ink blue dew
that has dripped from
To spread it I
can't use a pen,
I can't use a writing brush,
can only use my life's
to make a single line of
marks worth puzzling over.