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THESE are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night and the heart plunges lower than night.
William Carlos Williams
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William Carlos Williams
Age: 79 †
Born: 1883
Born: September 17
Died: 1963
Died: March 4
Autobiographer
Literary Critic
Physician
Physician Writer
Poet
Writer
Weeks
Years
Stupidity
Men
Week
Barrenness
Year
Plunges
Dark
Desolate
Night
Plunge
Nature
Equals
Lower
Heart
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The only realism in art is of the imagination.
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It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.
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Who isn't frustrated and does not prove it by his actions - if you want to say so? But through art the psychologically maimed may become the most distinguished man of his age. Take Freud for instance.
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Sunshine of late afternoon-- On the glass tray a glass pitcher, the tumbler turned down, by which a key is lying--And the immaculate white bed
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What love is I don't know if it's not the response of our deepest natures to one another.
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Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.
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A new music is a new mind.
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We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness.
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Afraid lest he be caught up in a net of words, tripped up, bewildered and so defeated-thrown aside-a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions.
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Dissonance / (if you are interested) / leads to discovery.
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A new world is only a new mind.
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Covertly the hands of a great clock go round and round! Were they to move quickly and at once the whole secret would be out and the shuffling of all ants be done forever.
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As the rain falls so does your love bathe every open object of the world
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What can any of us do with his talent but try to develop his vision, so that through frequent failures we may learn better what we have missed in the past.
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If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.
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THE THOUGHTFUL LOVER Deny yourself all half things. Have it or leave it. But it will keep—or it is not worth the having. Never start anything you can't finish— However do not lose faith because you are starved! She loves you she says. Believe it —tomorrow. But today the particulars of poetry that difficult art require your whole attention.
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O Marvelous! What new configuration will come next? I am bewildered with multiplicity.
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Say it, no ideas but in things - nothing but the blank faces of the houses and cylindrical trees bent, forked by preconception and accident - split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained - secret - into the body of the light!
William Carlos Williams