The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality. — T. S. Eliot, from “Tradition and Individual Talent,” The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism (Routledge, 1989) Advertisements
Must all of worth be travailled for, and those Life’s brightest stars rise from a troubled sea? Must years go by in sad uncertainty Leaving us doubting whose the conquering blows, Are we or Fate the victors? Time which shows All inner meanings will reveal, but we Shall never know the upshot. Ours to be… Continue reading Amy Lowell
Now in midsummer come and all fools slaughtered And spring’s infuriations over and a long way To the first autumnal inhalations, young broods Are in the grass, the roses are heavy with a weight Of fragrance and the mind lays by its trouble. — Wallace Stevens, from “Credences of Summer,” The Collected Poems of Wallace… Continue reading Wallace Stevens
Parrots, tortoises and redwoods live a longer life than men do; Men a longer life than dogs do; Dogs a longer life than love does. ― Edna St. Vincent Millay, Edna St. Vincent Millay: Poems. (Everyman’s Library; Reprint edition, March 2, 2010) Originally published January 1st 1923.
The deep parts of my life pour onward, as if the river shores were opening out. It seems that things are more like me now, that I can see farther into paintings. I feel closer to what language can’t reach. With my sense, as with birds, I climb into the windy heaven, out of the… Continue reading Rainer Maria Rilke
The river is within us, the sea is all about us — T. S. Eliot, from “The Dry Salvages,” The Four Quartets. (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1971) Originally published 1943.
If I knew words enough, I could write the longest love letter in the world and never get tired. — F. Scott Fitzgerald, from “Head and Shoulders,” The Best Early Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald. (Modern Library; Modern Library Pbk. Ed edition, November 8, 2005) Originally published 1924.