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.
Accurate scholarship can unearth the whole offence from luther untill noe that has driven a culture mad. From what occured at linz what huge imago made a psychopathic god. i and the public know what all schoolchildren learn those to whom evil is done do evil in return.
Long ago the accusations had begun, And suddenly knew by whom it had been judged
It's impossible to represent a saint [in Art]. It becomes boring. Perhaps because he is, like the Saturday Evening Post people, inthe position of having almost infinitely free will.
The older lives like not to be stood in rows or at right angles.
All the literati keep An imaginary friend.
Intellectual disgrace Stares from every human face, And the seas of pity lie Locked and frozen in each eye.
Does God judge us by appearances? I Suspect that He does.
You will be a poet because you will always be humiliated.
So long as we think of it objectively, time is Fate or Chance, the factor in our lives for which we are not responsible, and about which we can do nothing; but when we begin to think of it subjectively, we feel responsible for our time, and the notion of punctuality arises.
With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse
Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dingle.
Composing mortals with immortal fire.
Between labor and play stands work. A man is a worker if he is personally interested in the job which society pays him to do; whatfrom the point of view of society is necessary labor is from his point of view voluntary play. Whether a job is to be classified as labor or work depends, not on the job itself, but on the tastes of the individual who undertakes it. The difference does not, for example, coincide with the difference between a manual and a mental job; a gardener or a cobbler may be a worker, a bank clerk a laborer.
An unmanly sort of man whose love life seems to have been largely confined to crying in laps and playing mouse.
Human beings are, necessarily, actors who...can be divided...into the sane who know they are acting and the mad who do not.
Caesar's double-bed is warm As an unimportant clerk Writes i do not like my work On a pink official form.
We till shadowed days are done, We must weep and sing Duty's conscious wrong, The Devil in the clock
There are bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair, Irregular verbs to learn, the Time Being to redeem From insignificance.
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