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Minds like beds always made up (more stony than a shore) unwilling or unable.
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
Bed
Minds
Made
Mind
Stony
Always
Beds
Like
Unwilling
Unable
Shore
More quotes by William Carlos Williams
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
Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.
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Poe gives the sense for the first time in America, that literature is serious, not a matter of courtesy but of truth.
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Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.
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Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.
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The Moon, the dried weeds and the Pleiades - Seven feet tall the dark, dried weed stalks make a part of the night a red lace on the milky blue sky
William Carlos Williams
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.
William Carlos Williams
We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness.
William Carlos Williams
There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.
William Carlos Williams
No opinion can be trusted even the facts may be nothing but a printer's error.
William Carlos Williams
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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I have never been one to write by rule, not even by my own rules.
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It is not fair to be old, to put on a brown sweater.
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The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned
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But the sea which no one tends is also a garden
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The War is the first and only thing in the world today. The arts generally are not, nor is this writing a diversion from that for relief, a turning away. It is the war or part of it, merely a different sector of the field.
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The only human value of anything, writing included, is intense vision of the facts.
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No ideas but in things.
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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
As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.
William Carlos Williams