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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.

Sherwood Anderson

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Sherwood Anderson
Age: 64 †
Born: 1876
Born: September 13
Died: 1941
Died: March 8
Novelist
Writer
Buck Fever
Bodies
War
Away
Body
Ideas
Men
World
Slipped
Blew

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Wait and wait. Most people's lives are spent waiting.
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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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Dare to be strong and courageous. That is the road. Venture anything.
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Realism, in so far as the word means reality to life, is always bad art.
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Those who are to follow the arts should have a training in what is called poverty. Given a comfortable middle-class start in life, the artist is almost sure to end up by becoming a bellyacher, constantly complaining because the public does not rush forward at once to proclaim him.
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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?
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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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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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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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It is no use. I find it impossible to work with security staring me in the face.
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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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Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples.
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The whole object of education is...to develop the mind. The mind should be a thing that works.
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You must not become a mere peddler of words. The thing to learn is to know what people are thinking about, not what they say.
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I am a little thing, a tiny little thing on the vast prairies. I know nothing. My mouth is dirty. I cannot tell what I want. My feet are sunk in the black swampy land, but I am a lover. I love life. In the end love shall save me.
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The object of art is not to make salable pictures. It is to save yourself.
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I am pregnant with song. My body aches but do not betray me. I will sing songs and hide them away. I will tear them into bits and throw them in the street. The streets of my city are full of dark holes. I will hide my songs in the holes of the streets.
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I think that those of us who are what are called intellectuals make a terrible mistake in overvaluing the yen we have for the arts, books, etc. There is a sweet, fine quality in life that has nothing to do with this, and more and more I find myself valuing myself with those people.
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Work accomplished means little. It is in the past. What we all want is the glorious and living present.
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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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