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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.

Edward Dahlberg

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Edward Dahlberg
Age: 76 †
Born: 1900
Born: July 22
Died: 1977
Died: February 27
Novelist
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Mind
Poetry
Native
Admires
Strength
Forests
Frontier
Violence
Admire
Williams
Crazy
Violent
William
Word
Roots
Frontiers
Place
Sick
Cult
Look
Places
Forest
Looks
Poet
Primitive
Carlos

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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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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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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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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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Of all the animals on earth, none is so brutish as man when he seeks the delirium of coition.
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A strong foe is better than a weak friend.
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Man hoards himself when he has nothing to give away.
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I have no confidence in a man whose faults you cannot see.
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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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Man pines to live but cannot endure the days of his life.
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I know sage, wormwood, and hyssop, but I can't smell character unless it stinks.
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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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Genius, like truth, has a shabby and neglected mien.
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Perhaps Samuel Johnson was a great man he was certainly a drumbling one.
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