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The earnings of a poet could be reckoned by a metaphysician rather than a bookkeeper.

Edward Dahlberg

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Edward Dahlberg
Age: 76 †
Born: 1900
Born: July 22
Died: 1977
Died: February 27
Novelist
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Poet
Poetry
Rather
Metaphysician
Bookkeeper
Bookkeepers
Reckoned
Earnings
Earning

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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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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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Perhaps Samuel Johnson was a great man he was certainly a drumbling one.
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I have no confidence in a man whose faults you cannot see.
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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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A painter can hang his pictures, but a writer can only hang himself.
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Man hoards himself when he has nothing to give away.
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We are ruled by chance but never have enough patience to accept its despotism.
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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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Genius, like truth, has a shabby and neglected mien.
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A strong foe is better than a weak friend.
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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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Intellectual sodomy, which comes from the refusal to be simple about plain matters, is as gross and abundant today as sexual perversion and they are nowise different from one another.
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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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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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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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Though man is the only beast that can write, he has small reason to be proud of it. When he utters something that is wise it is nothing that the river horse does not know, and most of his creations are the result of accident.
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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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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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