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Would it not be better to have it understood that realism, in so far as the word means reality to life, is always bad art -- although it may possibly be very good journalism?

Sherwood Anderson

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Sherwood Anderson
Age: 64 †
Born: 1876
Born: September 13
Died: 1941
Died: March 8
Novelist
Writer
Buck Fever
Mean
Although
Good
Understood
Word
Always
Means
Would
Art
Life
Reality
Realism
May
Journalism
Better
Possibly

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Everyone in the world is Christ and they are all crucified.
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Above all avoid taking the advice of men who have no brains and do not know what they are talking about.
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Father was made for romance. For him there was no such thing as a fact.
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I am constantly amazed at how little painters know about painting, writers about writing, merchants about business, manufacturers about manufacturing. Most men just drift.
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Realism, in so far as the word means reality to life, is always bad art.
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The moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it histruth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced a falsehood.
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I go about looking at horses and cattle. They eat grass, make love, work when they have to, bear their young. I am sick with envy of them.
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The life of reality is confused, disorderly, almost always without apparent purpose, whereas in the artist's imaginative life there is purpose. There is determination to give the tale, the song, the painting, form -- to make it true and real to the theme, not to life.
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I have seldom written a story, long or short, that I did not have to write and rewrite. There are single stories of mine that have taken me ten or twelve years to get written.
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The object of art is not to make salable pictures. It is to save yourself.
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I had a world, and it slipped away from me. The War blew up more than the bodies of men....It blew ideas away.
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The fools who write articles about me think that one morning I suddenly decided to write and began to produce masterpieces. There is no special trick about writing, or painting either. I wrote constantly for 15 years before I produced anything with any solidity to it.
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What is to be got at to make the air sweet, the ground good under the feet, can only be got at by failure, trial, again and again and again failure.
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The fruition of the year had come and the night should have been fine with a moon in the sky and the crisp sharp promise of frost in the air, but it wasn't that way. It rained and little puddles of water shone under the street lamps on Main Street. In the woods in the darkness beyond the Fair Ground water dripped from the black trees.
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All good New Orleanians go to look at the Mississippi at least once a day. At night it is like creeping into a dark bedroom to look at a sleeping child--something of that sort--gives you the same warm nice feeling, I mean.
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It was a cold day but the sun was out and the trees were like great bonfires against gray distant fields and hills.
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There is this thing called life. We live it, not as we intend or wish, but as we are driven on by forces outside and inside ourselves.
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In youth there are always two forces fighting in people. The warm unthinking little animal struggles against the thing that reflects and remembers
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I wanted to run away from everything but I wanted to run towards something too.
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You won’t arrive. It is an endless search.
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