writer, poet, translator, novelist, playwright, pianist, prose writer, translator of William Shakespeare, screenwriter
🔗 Read on Wikipedia1890 – 1960
The great majority of us are required to live a constant, systematic duplicity. Your health is bound to be affected by it if, day after day, you say the opposite of what you feel, you grovel before what you dislike and rejoice at what bring brings you nothing but misfortune. Our nervous system isn’t just a fiction, it’s part of our physical body, and our soul exists in space and is inside us, like teeth in our mouth. It can’t be forever violated with impunity.
You fall into my arms. You are the good gift of destruction's path, When life sickens more than disease. And boldness is the root of beauty. Which draws us together.
Art has two constant, two unending concerns: It always meditates on death and thus always creates life. All great, genuine art resembles and continues the Revelation of St John.
They don’t ask much of you. They only want you to hate the things you love and to love the things you despise.
Poetry is a rich, full-bodied whistle, cracked ice crunching in pails, the night that numbs the leaf, the duel of two nightingales, the sweet pea that has run wild, Creation’s tears in shoulder blades.
It is no longer possible for lyric poetry to express the immensity of our experience. Life has grown too cumbersome, too complicated. We have acquired values which are best expressed in prose.
What is laid down, ordered, factual is never enough to embrace the whole truth: life always spills over the rim of every cup.
A candle burned on the table, a candle burned ... he whispered to himself — the beginning of something confused, formless; he hoped that it would take shape of itself. But nothing more came to him.
Snow, snow over the whole land the candle burned.
The main misfortune, the root of all evil to come, was loss of the confidence in the value of one's own opinion. People imagined that it was out of date of follow their own moral sense, that they must all sing in chorus, and live by other people's notions, notions that were crammed down everybody's throat.
I love you madly, irrationally, infinitely.
How wonderful to be alive," he thought. "But why does it always hurt?
If it is so painful to love and to be charged with this electric current, how much more painful must it be to a woman and to be the current, and to inspire love.
Like a beast in a pen, I’m cut off I’ve nowhere else to run.
Am I a gangster or a murderer? At the beauty of my land.
No bad man can be a good poet.
Even so, one step from my grave, Be crushed by the spirit of light.
Love is not weakness. It is strong. Only the sacrament of marriage can contain it.
Love is not weakness. It is strong. Only the sacrament of marriage can contain it.
Work is the order of the day, just as it was at one time, with our first starts and our best efforts. Do you remember? Therein lies its delight. It brings back the forgotten; one's stores of energy, seemingly exhausted, come back to life.
February. Get ink, shed tears.
As for the men in power, they are so anxious to establish the myth of infallibility that they do their utmost to ignore truth.
Art has two constant, two unending concerns: It always meditates on death and thus always creates life. All great, genuine art resembles and continues the Revelation of St John.
At the moment of childbirth, every woman has the same aura of isolation, as though she were abandoned, alone.
Literature is the art of discovering something extraordinary about ordinary people, and saying with ordinary words something extraordinary.
Love is not weakness. It is strong. Only the sacrament of marriage can contain it.
I don't like people who have never fallen or stumbled. Their virtue is lifeless and it isn't of much value. Life hasn't revealed its beauty to them.
Surprise is the greatest gift which life can grant us.
Poetry is a rich, full-bodied whistle, cracked ice crunching in pails, the night that numbs the leaf, the duel of two nightingales, the sweet pea that has run wild, Creation's tears in shoulder blades.
Man is born to live and not to prepare to live.