Walt Whitman is the only great modern poet who does not seem to experience discord when he faces his world. Not even solitude – his monologue is a universal chorus.
Category Archive: 1914
Every now and then, I strike something that just goes click, you know, in my head. As Gertrude Stein used to say, it rings the bell, and I feel, this is great.
I think that concrete poetry seems to have, as far as I can see, come to a kind of a dead end. It doesn’t seem to be going any further than it went in its high period of about five or six years ago.
Washington isn’t a city, it’s an abstraction.
I have been sitting watching that ever since I came back, the continuous variations of light and shadow.
Wisdom lies neither in fixity nor in change, but in the dialectic between the two.
Poems – crystallizations of the universal play of analogy, transparent objects which, as they reproduce the mechanism and the rotary motion of analogy, are waterspouts of new analogies.
The work of art is always unfaithful to its creator… Art lays at a higher level; it says something more, and almost always, it says something different from what the artist wanted to say.
I do read everything that we publish. We usually have to have two or three votes for a book before we take it on. So in that sense I suppose it is an orchestra.
The world of crime is a last refuge of the authentic, uncorrupted, spontaneous event.