Quote

At twelve I was determined to shoot only For honor at twenty not to shoot at all I know at thirty-three that one must shoot As often as one gets the rare chance - In killing there is more than commentary.

Allen Tate

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Allen Tate
Age: 79 †
Born: 1899
Born: November 19
Died: 1979
Died: February 9
Author
Literary Critic
Poet
University Teacher
Writer
Winchester
Kentucky
John Orley Allen Tate
Must
Twenties
Determined
Killing
Commentary
Honor
Twelve
Gets
Rare
Chance
Shoot
Often
Thirty
Three
Twenty

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I say that what one loves is best: The midnight fastness of the heart.
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A poem may be an instance of morality, of social conditions, of psychological history it may instance all its qualities, but never one of them alone, nor any two or three never less than all.
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I am not ridiculing verbal mechanisms, dreams, or repressions as origins of poetry all three of them and more besides may have a great deal to do with it.
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The Spring I seek is in a new face only.
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The day's at end and there's nowhere to go, Draw to the fire, even this fire is dying Get up and once again politely lying Invite the ladies toward the mistletoe.
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So face with calm that heritage And earn contempt before the age.
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The idiot greens the meadow with his eyes, The meadow creeps implacable and still A dog barks, the hammock swings, he lies. One two three the cows bulge on the hill.
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My darling boy whom I shall never know, My son, I love you in my deepest fears.
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Men cannot live forever But they must die forever.
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For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain.
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Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
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I have felt darkness lead me by the hand Over the hill to greet the singing dawn.
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There is probably nothing wrong with art for art's sake if we take the phrase seriously, and not take it to mean the kind of poetry written in England forty years ago.
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I thought I heard the dark pounding its head On a rock, crying: Who are the dead?
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Row after row with strict impunity The headstones yield their names to the element, The wind whirrs without recollection.
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The dusk runs down the lane driven like hail Far off a precise whistle is escheat To the dark and then the towering weak and pale.
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There is a calm for you where men and women Unroll the chill precision of moving feet.
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Peering, I heard the hooves come down the hill. The posse passed, twelve horse the leader's face Was worn as limestone on an ancient sill.
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Dark accurate plunger down the successive knell Of arch on arch, where ogives burst a red Reverberance of hail upon the dead Thunder like an exploding crucible!
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Narcissism and the Confederate dead cannot be connected logically, or even historically even were the connection an historical fact, they would not stand connected as art, for no one experiences raw history.
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