Every American poet feels that the whole responsibility for contemporary poetry has fallen upon his shoulders, that he is a literary aristocracy of one.
Hemingway is terribly limited. His technique is good for short stories, for people who meet once in a bar very late at night, but do not enter into relations. But not for the novel.
I used to try and concentrate the poem so much that there wasn't a word that wasn't essential. This leads to becoming boring and constipated.
From beginning to end Wilde performed his life and continued to do so even after fame had taken the plot out of his own hands.
Herds of reindeer move across Miles and miles of golden moss
The desires of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews Not to be born is the best for man The second best is a formal order The dance's pattern, dance while you can. Dance, dance, for the figure is easy The tune is catching and will not stop Dance till the stars come down from the rafters Dance, dance, dance till you drop.
Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links, Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks, Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.
The older lives like not to be stood in rows or at right angles.
There are bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair, Irregular verbs to learn, the Time Being to redeem From insignificance.
The relation of faith between subject and object is unique in every case. Hundreds may believe, but each has to believe by himself.
The countenances of children, like those of animals, are masks, not faces, for they have not yet developed a significant profile of their own.
Murder is commoner among cooks than among members of any other profession.
To ask the hard question is simple.
Those to whom evil is doneDo evil in return.
Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
But he would have us most of all remember to be enthusiastic over the night. Not only for the sense of wonder it alone has to offer but also because it needs our love. For with sad eyes its delectable creatures look up and beg us dumbly to ask them to follow. They are exiles who long for a future that lies in our power.
Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.
Beloved, we are always in the wrong, Handling so clumsily our stupid lives, Suffering too little or too long, Too careful even in our selfish loves: The decorative manias we obey Die in grimaces round us every day, Yet through their tohu-bohu comes a voice Which utters an absurd command - Rejoice.
Lovers have lived so long with giants and elves, they won't believe again in their own size.
The basic stimulus to the intelligence is doubt, a feeling that the meaning of an experience is not self-evident.
Literary confessors are contemptible, like beggars who exhibit their sores for money, but not so contemptible as the public that buys their books.
Shall memory restore The steps and the shore, The face and the meeting place.
Each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom.
The sky is darkening like a stain Something is going to fall like rain And it won't be flowers
Like love we don't know where or why Like love we cant compel or fly Like Love we often weep Like Love we seldom keep
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