A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring. |
Afraid lest he be caught up in a net of words tripped up, bewildered and so defeated - thrown aside - a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions. |
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derision outside my window: Play louder. |
Antony and Cleopatra were right; they have shown the way. I love you or I do not live at all. |
At ten a.m. the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband's house. I pass solitary in my car. |
But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents. |
But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It is directly, that is, of the senses, and since the senses do not exist without an object for their employment all art is necessarily objective. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents. |
But the thing that stands eternally in the way of really good writing is always one: the virtual impossibility of lifting to the imagination those things which lie under the direct scrutiny of the senses, close to the nose. It is this difficulty that sets a value upon all works of art and makes them a necessity. The senses witnessing what is immediately before them in detail see a finality which they cling to in despair, not knowing which way to turn. Thus this so-called natural or scientific array becomes fixed, the walking devil of modern life. |
But we who are wiser
shut ourselves in on either hand and no one knows whether we think good or evil. |
Empty pockets make empty heads. |
Everyone in this life is defeated. But a man, if he be a man, is not defeated. |
Forget all rules, forget all restrictions, as to taste, as to what ought to be said, write for the pleasure of it -- whether slowly or fast -- every form of resistance to a complete release should be abandoned. |
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. |
History must stay open, it is all humanity. |
History, history! We fools, what do we know or care? History begins for us with murder and enslavement, not with discovery. |