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Really unreal world, will you perhaps do the breathing for me while I am away?
e. e. cummings
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e. e. cummings
Age: 67 †
Born: 1894
Born: October 14
Died: 1962
Died: September 3
Novelist
Painter
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Cambridge
Massachusetts
e. e. cummings
Edward Estlin Cummings
E. Estlin Cummings
e e cummings
EE cummings
Edward Eatlin Cummings
Really
World
Unreal
Breathing
Perhaps
Away
More quotes by e. e. cummings
how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any lifted from the no of all nothing human merely being doubt unimaginable You?
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it's spring when the world is puddle-wonderful
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As small as a world as large as alone.
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All ignorance toboggans into know and trudges up to ignorance again.
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There is no music unless the drum and the drummer are one.
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yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skilfully curled) all worlds
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Laughing is just another way of showing people your wise
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We can never be born enough.
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Damn everything but the circus! ...damn everything that is grim, dull, motionless, unrisking, inward turning, damn everything that won't get into the circle, that won't enjoy. That won't throw it's heart into the tension, surprise, fear and delight of the circus, the round world, the full existence.
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you shall above all things be glad and young For if you're young,whatever life you wear it will become youand if you are glad whatever's living will yourself become.
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If 180 million people want to be undead, that’s their funeral, but I happen to like being alive.
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It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.
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Meanwhile myself et cetera lay quietly in the deep mud et cetera (dreaming, et cetera, of your smile eyes knees and of your Etcetera.)
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So, when kiss Spring comes we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss lips because tic clocks tock don't make a toctic difference to kisskiss you and to kiss me.
e. e. cummings
Now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened.
e. e. cummings
Art is a mystery. A mystery is something immeasurable.
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Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.
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since the thing perhaps is to eat flowers and not to be afraid
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Because you aren't afraid to kiss the dirt (and consequently dare to climb the sky)
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one pierced moment whiter than the rest -turning from the tremendous lie of sleep i watch the roses of the day grow deep.
e. e. cummings
