Quote

Concurring hands divide flax for damask that when bleached by Irish weather has the silvered chamois-leather water-tightness of a skin.

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
Water
Bleached
Hands
Divide
Work
Leather
Irish
Divides
Weather
Silvered
Skin
Tightness
Skins
Flax

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You're not free until you've been made captive by supreme belief.
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I wonder what Adam and Eve think of it by this time.
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As contagion of sickness makes sickness, contagion of trust can make trust.
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All are / naked, none is safe.
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Everything I have written is the result of reading or of interest in people.
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Originality is... a by-product of sincerity.
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Sun and moon and day and night and man and beast each with a splendor which man in all his vileness cannot set aside each with an excellence!
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the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of bell buoys, advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped things are bound to sink-- in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor consciousness.
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I see no reason for calling my work poetry except that there is no other category in which to put it.
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Victory won't come to me unless I go to it a grape tendril ties a knot in knots till knotted thirty times
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When one is frank, one's very presence is a compliment.
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Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting and baseball is like writing. You can never tell with either how it will go.
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Egotism is usually subversive of sagacity.
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[On her use of quotations:] When a thing has been said so well that it could not be said better, why paraphrase it? Hence my writing, is, if not a cabinet of fossils, a kind of collection of flies in amber.
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So wary as to disappear for centuries and reappear but never caught, the unicorn has been preserved by an unmatched device wrought like the work of expert blacksmiths.
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Impatience is the mark of independence, not of bondage.
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Writing is an undertaking for the modest.
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Truly as the sun can rot or mend, love can make one bestial or make a beast a man.
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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, that is to say the poetic, is a primal necessity.
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