William Winter


American Dramatic Critic, Author and Poet

Author Quotes

True passion is not a wisp-light; it is a consuming flame, and either it must find fruition or it will burn the human heart to dust and ashes.

When will the dead world cease to dream, when will the morning break?

While our hearts are pure, our lives are happy and our peace is sure.

White sail upon the ocean verge, just crimsoned by the setting sun, thou hast thy port beyond the surge, thy happy homeward course to run and winged hope, with heart of fire, to gain the bliss of thy desire.

The past is utterly indifferent to its worshipers.

The stage? is the mirror of human life.

There is a better thing than the great man who is always speaking, and that is the great man who only speaks when he has a great word to say.

There is no creature so lonely as the dweller in the intellect.

Though all the bards of earth were dead, and all their music passed away, what Nature wishes should be said she?ll find the rightful voice to say.

His was the heart that overmuch in human goodness puts its trust, and his the keen, satiric touch that shrivels falsehood into dust. Fierce for the right, he bore his part in strife with many a valiant foe; but laughter winged his polished dart, and kindness tempered every blow.

Human, judgment is finite, and it ought always to be charitable.

Life is arched with changing skies: rarely are they what they seem: children we of smiles and sighs -- much we know, but more we dream.

Life, unexplored, is hope?s perpetual blaze?when past, one long, involved, and darksome maze: but, that some mighty power controls the whole, a secret intuition tells the soul. What after all remains, when life is sped, and man is gathered to the silent dead? Home to the narrow house, the long, long sleep, where pain is stilled, and sorrow doth not weep.

Manners, the final and perfect flower of noble character.

Mediocrity is less sensitive than genius, and therefore suffers less under nearly any possible exigency.

A newspaper, like a theatre, must mainly owe its continuance in life to the fact that it pleases many persons; and in order to please many persons it will, unconsciously perhaps, respond to their several tastes, reflect their various qualities, and reproduce their views. In a certain sense it is evolved out of the community that absorbs it, and, therefore, partaking of the character of the community, while it may retain many merits and virtues, it will display itself, as in some respects ignorant, trivial, narrow, and vulgar.

Self-expression is the dominant necessity of human nature.

Ambition has but one reward for all: a little power, a little transient fame, a grave to rest in, and a fading name!

The dramatist, like the poet, is born, not made. There must be inspiration back of all true and permanent art, dramatic or otherwise, and art is universal: there is nothing national about it. Its field is humanity, and it takes in all the world; nor does anything else afford the refuge that is provided by it from all troubles and all the vicissitudes of life.

And every grief that mortals share found pity in his tenderness.

The fault line of race is a paramount factor in keeping us from realizing our potential as a state and as a nation. The elimination of this line is what I think this institute is about. . . . Our task in the final analysis is to cause more of us to look in the mirror.

As often as I come back to his door, his love met me on the threshold, and his noble serenity gave me comfort and peace.

The golden time of Long Ago.

Cities, unlike human creatures, may grow to be so old that at last they will become new.

The inexhaustible talk that was the flow of a golden sea of eloquence and wisdom.

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American Dramatic Critic, Author and Poet