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Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
Carl Sandburg
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Carl Sandburg
Age: 89 †
Born: 1878
Born: January 6
Died: 1967
Died: July 22
Biographer
Historian
Journalist
Musicologist
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Trade Unionist
Writer
Galesburg
Illinois
Carl August Sandburg
Sleeves
Spit
Goes
Language
Hands
Writing
Spits
Work
Slang
Rolls
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.
Carl Sandburg
There was always the consolation that if I didn't like what I wrote I could throw it away or burn it.
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You know being born is important to you. You know nothing else was ever so important to you.
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The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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I wrote poems in my corner of the Brooks Street station. I sent them to two editors who rejected them right off. I read those letters of rejection years later and I agreed with those editors.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is the capture of a picture, a song, or a flair, in a deliberate prism of words.
Carl Sandburg
Who else speaks for the Family of Man? They are in tune and step with constellations of universal law.
Carl Sandburg
The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.
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Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.
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An ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, Come and find me, come and find me.
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Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the women don't get you then the whiskey must.
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Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.
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When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.
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What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
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Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.
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In democracy both a deep reverence and a sense of the comic are requisite.
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I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.
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