I'm always amazed at the American practice of allowing one party to a homosexual act to remain passive--it's so undemocratic. Sexmust be mutual.
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.
Behind you swiftly the figure comes softly, The spot on your skin is a shocking disease.
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.
You will be a poet because you will always be humiliated.
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.
For time is inches And the heart's changes, Where ghost has haunted Lost and wanted.
Does God judge us by appearances? I Suspect that He does.
Caesar's double-bed is warm As an unimportant clerk Writes i do not like my work On a pink official form.
Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral
An unmanly sort of man whose love life seems to have been largely confined to crying in laps and playing mouse.
There are bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair, Irregular verbs to learn, the Time Being to redeem From insignificance.
There was still gold and silver in the mountains, And hunger was a more immediate sorrow
Composing mortals with immortal fire.
We honor founders of these starving cities, Whose honor is the image of our sorrow.
The camera may do justice to laughter, but must degrade sorrow.
Swans in the winter air A white perfection have
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.
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