55 ordspråk av William Stafford

William Stafford

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. . . You were aimed from birth:
you will never be alone. Rain
will come, a gutter filled, an Amazon,
long aisles -- you never heard so deep a sound,
moss on rock, and years. You turn your head --
that's what the silence meant: you're not alone.
The whole wide world pours down.

"It's love," they say. You touch
the right one and a whole half of the universe
wakes up, a new half.

A great snug wall goes around everything,
has always been there, will always
remain. It is a good world to be
lost in. It comforts you. It is
all right. And you sleep.

A writer is not so much someone who has something to say as he is someone who has found a process that will bring about new things he would not have thought of if he had not started to say them. That is, he does not draw on a reservoir; instead, he engages in an activity that brings to him a whole succession of unforeseen stories, poems, essays, plays, laws, philosophies, religions . . .

All right. I listen. My life sinks a little
farther, for the pity; from now on I know it
with them. We'll take a stand, wherever the end is.
We go forward by this quiet sharing,
they one way, I another. I am their promise:
no one else is going to know.

And all the time it's your own story, even when you think -- "It's all just made up, a trick. What is the author trying to do?" Reader, we are in such a story: all of this is trying to arrange a kind of prayer for you. Pray for me.

And sometimes when they look in the fire
they see time going on and someone alone,
but they don't say anything.

At noon in the desert a panting lizard
waited for history, its elbows tense,
watching the curve of a particular road
as if something might happen.

Even the upper end of the river
believes in the ocean.

Exactly at midnight
yesterday sighs away.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give -- yes or no, or maybe --
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

I am a person a dictionary-maker has to contend with. I am a living evidence in the development of language.

I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

I embrace emerging experience.
I participate in discovery.
I am a butterfly.
I am not a butterfly collector.
I want the experience of the butterfly.

I have woven a parachute out of everything broken.

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Vad är sprichwort?
Hur funkar det?
Vanliga frågor
Om samlingen
Ordspråkshjältar
Hjälp till!

När det blåser kallt är ordspråk ballt.

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