I am beginning to think of the human imagination as a fruit machine on which victories are rare and separated by much vain expense, and represent a rare alignment of mental and spiritual qualities that normally are quite at odds.
In everyone there sleeps. A sense of life lived according to love. To some it means the difference they could make. By loving others, but across most it sweeps. As all they might have done had they been loved. That nothing cures.
I am not sure, once a poet has found out what has been written already, and how it was written - once, in short, he has learnt his trade - that he should bother with literature at all. Poetry is not like surgery, a technique that can be copied. Every operation the poet performs is unique, and need never be done again.
Give me a thrill, says the reader, Give me a kick; I don't care how you succeed, or What subject you pick.
I'd like to think...that people in pubs would talk about my poems
Sex means nothing--just the moment of ecstasy, that flares and dies in minutes.
I wouldn't mind seeing China if I could come back the same day.
Courage is no good: It means not scaring others. Being brave Lets no one off the grave. Death is no different whined at than withstood.
What are days for? Days are where we live.
Uncontradicting solitude Supports me on its giant palm; And like a sea-anemone Or simple snail, there cautiously Unfolds, emerges, what I am.
And immediately Rather than words comes the thought of high windows: The sun-comprehending glass, And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know, Have always known, know that we can't escape, Yet can't accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
All the unhurried day / Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.
Heads in the Women's Ward On pillow after pillow lies The wild white hair and staring eyes; Jaws stand open; necks are stretched With every tendon sharply sketched; A bearded mouth talks silently To someone no one else can see. Sixty years ago they smiled At lover, husband, first-born child. Smiles are for youth. For old age come Death's terror and delirium.
One of the great criticisms of poets of the past is that they said one thing and did another.
The breath that sharpens life is life itself.
A writer can have only one language, if language is going to mean anything to him.
Clearly money has something to do with life.
Most people know more as they get older: I give all that the cold shoulder.
Spring, of all seasons most gratuitous, Is fold of untaught flower, is race of water, Is earth's most multiple, excited daughter; And those she has least use for see her best, Their paths grown craven and circuitous, Their visions mountain-clear, their needs immodest.
Still, vicious or virtuous, Love suits most of us.
Life and literature is a question of what one thrills to, and further than that no man shall ever go without putting his foot in a turd.
Life is first boredom, then fear. Whether or not we use it, it goes, And leaves what something hidden from us chose, And age, and then the only end of age.
They say eyes clear with age.
The chromatic scale is what you use to give the effect of drinking a quinine martini and having an enema simultaneously.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: