Quote

In an age of abstract experience, fornication Is self-expression, adjunct to Christian euphoria, And whores become delinquents delinquents, patients Patients, wards of society. Whores, by that rule, Are precious.

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
Rule
Wards
Expression
Delinquents
Age
Whores
Society
Euphoria
Christian
Patients
Experience
Precious
Become
Abstract
Adjunct
Self
Patient
Fornication

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Religion is the sole technique for the validating of values.
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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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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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Antiquity breached mortality with myths. Narcissus is vocabulary. Hermes decorates A cornice on the Third National Bank.
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All the sea-gods are dead. You, Venus, come home To your salt maidenhead.
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Venus knows country matters: country knows Venus: For Love, Dione's boy, was born on the farm.
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We know the particular poem, not what it says that we can restate.
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I say that what one loves is best: The midnight fastness of the heart.
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POET If not in a place, where are the People weeping? LIBERAL They creep weeping in the face, not place. POET Is it something with which we may cope The weeping, the creeping, the peepee-ing, the peeping?
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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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My darling boy whom I shall never know, My son, I love you in my deepest fears.
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What is the poem, after it is written? That is the question. Not where it came from or why.
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For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain.
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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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There is a calm for you where men and women Unroll the chill precision of moving feet.
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So the poet, who wants to be something that he cannot be, and is a failure in plain life, makes up fictitious versions of his predicament that are interesting even to other persons because nobody is a perfect automobile salesman.
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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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Culture is the study of perfection, and the constant effort to achieve it.
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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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Yevgeny Yevtushenko is a ham actor, not a poet.
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