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There are people who live inside their heads and their intellects. It's something one is born with and stuck with. It's not something you make a decision about.
Charles Simic
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Charles Simic
Age: 86
Born: 1938
Born: May 9
Anglicist
Essayist
Journalist
Poet
Translator
University Teacher
Writer
Belgrade
Serbia
Dušan Simić
Čarls Simić
Stuck
Inside
Decision
Born
Live
Something
Intellects
Make
Heads
People
Intellect
More quotes by Charles Simic
Words make love on the page like flies in the summer heat and the poet is only the bemused spectator.
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A poem is an instant of lucidity in which the entire organism participates.
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Only poetry can measure the distance between ourselves and the Other.
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Silence is the only language god speaks.
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There’s no preparation for poetry.
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Here is something we can all count on. Sooner or later our tribe always comes to ask us to agree to murder.
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The stone is a mirror which works poorly. Nothing in it but dimness. Your dimness or its dimness, who's to say? In the hush your heart sounds like a black cricket.
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The poem I want to write is impossible. A stone that floats.
Charles Simic
I slept little, read a lot, and fell in love frequently.
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He who cannot howl will not find his pack.
Charles Simic
In their effort to divorce language and experience, deconstructionist critics remind me of middle-class parents who do not allow their children to play in the street.
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If the sky falls they shall have clouds for supper.
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Poetry is an orphan of silence.
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There are knives that glitter like altars In a dark church Where they bring the cripple and the imbecile To be healed. There's a woden block where bones are broken, Scraped clean--a river dried to its bed
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Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all others were making ships.
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Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket.
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The highest levels of consciousness are wordless.
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The truth is dark under your eyelids.
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For Emily Dickinson every philosophical idea was a potential lover. Metaphysics is the realm of eternal seduction of the spirit by ideas.
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Only brooms Know the devil Still exists, That the snow grows whiter After a crow has flown over it
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