Quote

To make a start, out of particulars and make them general, rolling up the sum, by defective means Sniffing the trees, just another dog among a lot of dogs.What else is there? And to do?

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
Make
General
Among
Sniffing
Tree
Particulars
Start
Defective
Means
Rolling
Else
Dogs
Another
Trees
Mean
Dog

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History must stay open, it is all humanity.
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Divorce is the sign of knowledge in our time.
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Outside, the north wind, coming and passing, swelling and dying, lifts the frozen sand drives it a-rattle against the lidless windows and we may dear sit stroking the cat stroking the cat and smiling sleepily, prrrr.
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Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentities stirs me to it: colored women day workers- old and experienced- returning home at dusk, in cast off clothing faces like old Florentine oak.
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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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A poem is a small machine made of words.
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I think of the poetry of René Char and all he must have seen and suffered that has brought him to speak only of sedgy rivers, of daffodils and tulips whose roots they water, even to the free-flowing river that laves the rootlets of those sweet-scented flowers that people the milky way
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To refine, to clarify, to intensify that eternal moment in which we alone live there is but a single force the imagination.
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Love is that common tone shall raise his fiery head and sound his note.
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The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
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And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind.
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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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Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse-- at least, blinded by the light, young love is.
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That which is possible is inevitable.
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Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!
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A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.
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Poetry demands a different material than prose. It uses another facet of the same fact... the spontaneous conformation of language as it is heard.
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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!
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