Robert Graves
FameRank: 6

"Robert von Ranke Graves" (24 July 1895 – 7 December 1985) was an English poet, novelist, critic, and classicist. During his long life he produced more than 140 works. Graves's poems—together with his translations and innovative analysis and interpretations of the Greek mythology/Greek myths; his memoir of his early life, including his role in the World War I/First World War, Good-Bye to All That; and his speculative study of poetic inspiration, The White Goddess—have never been out of print.

He earned his living from writing, particularly popular historical novels such as I, Claudius, King Jesus, The Golden Fleece and Count Belisarius. He also was a prominent translator of Classical antiquity/Classical Latin and Ancient Greek texts; his versions of The Twelve Caesars and The Golden Ass remain popular, for their clarity and entertaining style. Graves was awarded the 1934 James Tait Black Memorial Prize for both I, Claudius and Claudius the God.

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We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.

One smile relieves a heart that grievesthough deadly sad it be,and one hard look Can close the book that lovers love to see.

Every English poet should master the rules of grammar before he attempts to bend or break them.

The remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he really is very good, in spite of all the people who say he is very good.

Intuition is the supra-logic that cuts out all the routine processes of thought and leaps straight from the problem to the answer.

There is no money in poetry, but then there is no poetry in money either.

I believe that every English poet should read the English classics, master the rules of grammar before he attempts to bend or break them, travel abroad, experience the horror of sordid passion and-if he is lucky enough-know the love of an honest woman.

If I were a girl, I'd despair. The supply of good women far exceeds that of the men who deserve them.

Love is a universal migraine / A bright stain on the vision / Blotting out reason.

Kill if you must, but never hate: Man is but grass and hate is blight, The sun will scorch you soon or late, Die wholesome then, since you must fight.