#AmericanWriters
My father used to say, “Superior people never make long v… have to be shown Longfellow’s grav… or the glass flowers at Harvard. Self-reliant like the cat—
The illustration is nothing to you without the appl… You lack half wit. You crush all… into close conformity, and then wa… on them.
In speaking of ‘aspiration,’ From the recesses of a pen more do… itself, Were you presenting us with one mo… French drollery,
If external action is effete and rhyme is outmoded, I shall revert to you, Habakkuk, as when in a Bible clas… the teacher was speaking of unrhym…
Not a mere blowing flame— A clinking ash, I feel—with shame… At malendeavor in your service. But as Jehoshaphat said on that o… Old Testament history,
you’ve seen a strawberry that’s had a struggle; yet was, where the fragments met, a hedgehog or a star— fish for the multitude
For authorities whose hopes are shaped by mercenaries? Writers entrapped by teatime fame and by commuters’ comforts? Not for thes…
Although the aepyornis or roc that lived in Madagascar, a… the moa are extinct, the camel—sparrow, linked with them in size—the large sparro…
You do not seem to realize that be… rather than An asset—that in view of the fact… creates form—we are justified in s… That you must have brains. For yo…
Dürer would have seen a reason for… in a town like this, with eight st… to look at; with the sweet sea air… on a fine day, from water etched with waves as formal as the scales
Lest by diminished vitality and ab… vigilance, I become food for croco… of gluttony which is legion. It is… on either side of me. You remember the Israelite…
What is our innocence, what is our guilt? All are naked, none is safe. And whence is courage: the unanswered questio… the resolute doubt,—
“No water so still as the dead fountains of Versailles.” No… with swart blind look askance and gondoliering legs, so fine as the chinz china one with fawn—
I, too, dislike it: there are thin… all this fiddle. Reading it, however, with a perfec… discovers in it after all, a place for the genu…
You make me think of many men Once met, to be forgot again; Or merely resurrected In a parenthesis of wit, That found them hastening through…