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As contagion of sickness makes sickness, contagion of trust can make trust.

Marianne Moore

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Marianne Moore
Age: 84 †
Born: 1887
Born: November 15
Died: 1972
Died: February 5
Essayist
Poet
Translator
Writer
Kirkwood
Missouri
Marianne Moore
Marianne Craig Moore
Contagion
Sickness
Trust
Makes
Make

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When one is frank, one's very presence is a compliment.
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A man is a writer if all his words are strung in definite sentence sounds.
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Yule—Yul log for the Christmas-fire tale-spinner—of fairy tales that can come true: Yul Brynner.
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Writing is an undertaking for the modest.
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What is our innocence, What is our guilt? All are naked, none is safe.
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Camels are snobbish and sheep, unintelligent water buffaloes, neurasthenic-- even murderous. Reindeer seem over-serious.
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Life is energy, and energy is creativity. And even when individuals pass on, the energy is retained in the work of art, locked in it and awaiting release if only someone will take the time and the care to unlock it.
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The cynics in life are the people who are always trying to do things for people who don't want things done for them.
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Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral he could handle any missile.
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Dürer would have seen a reason for living in a town like this.
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The mind is an enchanting thing is an enchanted thing, like the glaze on a katydid-wing subdivided by sun till the nettings are legion.
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Of the crow-blue mussel shells, one keeps adjusting the ash heaps opening and shutting itself like an injured fan.
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Poetry is a peerless proficiency of the imagination.
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The hands are the heart's messengers.
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Impatience is the mark of independence, not of bondage.
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Poetry ... ... a place for the genuine, Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise
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The prey of fear, he, always curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly done, says to the alternating blaze, Again the sun! anew each day and new and new and new, that comes into and steadies my soul.
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The enslaver is enslaved, the hater, harmed.
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Below the incandescent stars / below the incandescent fruit, / the strange experience of beauty / its existence is too much / it tears one to pieces / and each fresh wave of consciousness / is poison.
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... imaginary gardens with real toads in them ... ... if you demand on one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand genuine, then you are interested in poetry.
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