If some really acute observer made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex, people would forget a good deal about sex and find the explanation for everything in egotism.
How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.
Intolerance respecting other people's religion is toleration itself in comparison with intolerance respecting other people's art.
Above the forest of the parakeets, A parakeet of parakeets prevails, A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
One sparrow is worth a thousand gulls, When it sings. The gull sits on chimney-tops. He mocks the guinea, challenges The crow, inciting various modes. The sparrow requites one, without intent.
New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
A languid janitor bears His lantern through colonnades And the architecture swoons.
So, too, if, to our surprise, we should meet one of these morons whose remarks are so conspicuous a part of the folklore of the world of the radio--remarks made without using either the tongue or the brain, spouted much like the spoutings of small whales--we should recognize him as below the level of nature but not as below the level of the imagination.
If the hero is not a person, the emblem Of him, even if Xenophon, seems To stand taller than a person stands, has A wider brow, large and less human Eyes and bruted ears: the man-like body Of a primitive.
The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
Imagination...is the irrepressible revolutionist.
It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation; and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.
The mind is the terriblest force in the world, father, Because, in chief, it, only, can defend Against itself. At its mercy, we depend Upon it.
Poetry has to be something more than a conception of the mind. It has to be a revelation of nature. Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
Soldier, there is a war between the mind And sky, between thought and day and night. It is For that the poet is always in the sun, Patches the moon together in his room To his Virgilian cadences, up down, Up down. It is a war that never ends.
The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.
The grackles sing avant the spring Most spiss oh! Yes, most spissantly. They sing right puissantly.
It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place, It has to face the man of the time.
It is never the thing but the version of the thing: The fragrance of the woman not her self, Her self in her manner not the solid block, The day in its color not perpending time, Time in its weather, our most sovereign lord, The weather in words and words in sounds of sound.
Music falls on the silence like a sense / A passion that we feel, not understand.
Life consists Of propositions about life. The human Revery is a solitude in which We compose these propositions, torn by dreams, By the terrible incantations of defeats And by the fear that the defeats and the dreams are one. The whole race is a poet that writes down The eccentric propositions of its fate.
God is gracious to some very peculiar people.
Words of the world are the life of the world.
A diary is more or less the work of a man of clay whose hands are clumsy and in whose eyes there is no light.
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