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Life is beautiful. He who reads that As in the window of some distant, speeding train Knows what he wants, and what will befall.
John Ashbery
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John Ashbery
Age: 90 †
Born: 1927
Born: July 28
Died: 2017
Died: September 3
Journalist
Poet
University Teacher
Writer
Rochester
New York
G'on Ashberi
John Ashberry
Jonas Barry
Jon Asshuberī
John Lawrence Ashbery
John Ashbery
Life
Speeding
Reads
Distant
Train
Window
Wants
Inspirational
Beautiful
Befall
More quotes by John Ashbery
To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
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What is the past, what is it all for? A mental sandwich?
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The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...
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Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision
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Until, accustomed to disappointments, you can let yourself rule and be ruled by these strings or emanations that connect everything together, you haven't fully exorcised the demon of doubt that sets you in motion like a rocking horse that cannot stop rocking.
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Sometimes a musical phrase would perfectly sum up The mood of a moment. One of those lovelorn sonatas For wind instruments was riding past on a solemn white horse. Everybody wondered who the new arrival was.
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Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
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The mind Is so hospitable, taking in everything Like boarders, and you don't see until It's all over how little there was to learn Once the stench of knowledge has dissipated.
John Ashbery
Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
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Its a bit mad. Too bad, I mean, that getting to know each just for a fleeting second Must be replaced by unperfect knowledge of the featureless whole Like some pocket history of the world, so general As to constitute a sob or wail
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A perfect example of the new republic's urge to drape itself with the togas of classical respectability.
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Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?
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Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
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Some certified nut Will try to tell you it's poetry, (It's extraordinary, it makes a great deal of sense) But watch out or he'll start with some New notion or other.
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It is written in the Book of Usable Minutes That all things have their center in their dying.
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The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes
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The sun fades like the spreading Of a peacock's tail, as though twilight Might be read as a warning to those desperate For easy solutions.
John Ashbery
The soul is not a soul, Has no secret, is small, and it fits Its hollow perfectly: its room, our moment of attention.
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The ellipse is as aimless as that, Stretching invisibly into the future so as to reappear In our present. Its flexing is its account, Return to the point of no return.
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The soul establishes itself. But how far can it swim out through the eyes And still return safely to its nest?
John Ashbery