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Recognize the cunning man not by the corpses he pays homage to but by the living writers he conspires against with the most shameful weapon, Silence, or the briefest review.

Edward Dahlberg

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Edward Dahlberg
Age: 76 †
Born: 1900
Born: July 22
Died: 1977
Died: February 27
Novelist
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Writers
Review
Weapons
Pays
Pay
Cunning
Silence
Weapon
Briefest
Living
Reviews
Conspires
Men
Critics
Homage
Recognize
Shameful
Criticism
Corpses

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The bad poet is a toady mimicking nature.
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Perhaps Samuel Johnson was a great man he was certainly a drumbling one.
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The newspaper has debauched the American until he is a slavish, simpering, and angerless citizen it has taught him to be a lump mass-man toward fraud, simony, murder, and lunacies more vile than those of Commodus or Caracalla.
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Evil, which is our companion all our days, is not to be treated as a foe. It is wrong to cocker vice, but we grow narrow and pithless if we are furtive about it, for this is at best a pretense, and the sage knows good and evil are kindred. The worst of men harm others, and the best injure themselves.
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Genius, like truth, has a shabby and neglected mien.
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Every decision you make is a mistake.
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Look at this poet William Carlos Williams: he is primitive and native, and his roots are in raw forest and violent places he is word-sick and place-crazy. He admires strength, but for what? Violence! This is the cult of the frontier mind.
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A strong foe is better than a weak friend.
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Of all the animals on earth, none is so brutish as man when he seeks the delirium of coition.
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I have no confidence in a man whose faults you cannot see.
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Man pines to live but cannot endure the days of his life.
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What is most appalling in an F. Scott Fitzgerald book is that it is peopleless fiction: Fitzgerald writes about spectral, muscledsuits dresses, hats, and sleeves which have some sort of vague, libidinous throb. These are plainly the product of sickness.
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A man who can be entertaining for a full day will be in his grave by night-fall.
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We are always talking about being together, and yet whatever we invent destroys the family, and makes us wild, touchless beasts feeding on technicolor prairies and rivers.
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We are a most solitary people, and we live, repelled by one another, in the gray, outcast cities of Cain.
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There are men that are birds, and their raiment is trembling feathers, for they show their souls to everyone and everything that is ungentle or untutored or evil or mockery is as a rude stone cast at them, and they suffer all day long, or as Paul remarks they are slain every moment.
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Man hoards himself when he has nothing to give away.
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A painter can hang his pictures, but a writer can only hang himself.
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What has a writer to be bombastic about? Whatever good a man may write is the consequence of accident, luck, or surprise, and nobody is more surprised than an honest writer when he makes a good phrase or says something truthful.
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I know sage, wormwood, and hyssop, but I can't smell character unless it stinks.
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