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Of all the animals on earth, none is so brutish as man when he seeks the delirium of coition.

Edward Dahlberg

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Edward Dahlberg
Age: 76 †
Born: 1900
Born: July 22
Died: 1977
Died: February 27
Novelist
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Seeks
Animals
None
Sex
Animal
Earth
Men
Brutish
Delirium

More quotes by Edward Dahlberg

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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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We are ruled by chance but never have enough patience to accept its despotism.
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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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A man who can be entertaining for a full day will be in his grave by night-fall.
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Ambition is a Dead Sea fruit, and the greatest peril to the soul is that one is likely to get precisely what he is seeking.
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The bad poet is a toady mimicking nature.
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Man pines to live but cannot endure the days of his life.
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Genius, like truth, has a shabby and neglected mien.
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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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Perhaps Samuel Johnson was a great man he was certainly a drumbling one.
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The earnings of a poet could be reckoned by a metaphysician rather than a bookkeeper.
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A painter can hang his pictures, but a writer can only hang himself.
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We are uneasy with an affectionate man, for we are positive he wants something of us, particularly our love.
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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 strong foe is better than a weak friend.
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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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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.
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I know sage, wormwood, and hyssop, but I can't smell character unless it stinks.
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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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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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