Love, if you love me, lie next to me. Be for me, like rain, the getting out of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi- lust of intentional indifference. Be wet with a decent happiness.
It's the classic story form. All staying equal, or proving equal, or being equal, this will all continue, and the next time around, we'll move on to see what happened to Harry after he dove in the river, or who his friend John really was, and so on.
There are a lot of editorials that have nothing to do with anything like that. But I was just thinking of that sense of prose as being very responsible and perceptive, thoughtful, intimate, and contriving a quote statement.
Again like Williams, with the emphasis now regrettable, when a man makes a poem, makes it mind you, he takes the words as he finds them lying interrelated about him.
All of which was OK, as that proved then, I certainly wouldn't contradict it as a necessary sense of things.
And what's fascinating in The Ten Thousand Things is that although there's time, an inexorable time of the three generations of lives, actively present, but place is the time, time doesn't really have to do with simply the human experience of it.
Don't name it, as they say, because instantly you offer it to this peculiar authority.
First you wonder if they're separate stories, but no, they're not, they're contingent stories and they form a pattern. And you begin with some of the island as the place to which the heroine of the book returns.
I know this body is impatient. I know I constitute only a meager voice and mind. Yet I loved, I love. I want no sentimentality. I want no more than home.
He lives out in Orchard Park. I mean, to be able to sit on the bench so patiently, for whatever part, and to be able to get up and do something, with such heroic competencies would be great.
It's as though all the terms of a family were present at one time rather than his dad and his mum. Not just a present authority, but the resident memory of what qualifies what else is the case.
Suddenly the whole imagination of writing and editorial and newspaper and all these presumptions about who am I reading this, and who else other people may be, and all that, it's so grimly brutal!
That poetry survived in its formal agencies finally, and that prose survived to get something said.
What has happened makes the world. Live on the edge, looking.
The irony of our social group is that so often everyone feels this, but there's no company whatsoever in that feeling. Think of Pound's great emphasis, the way out is via the door.
The pattern of the narrative never of necessity wants to end, it never has to.
The awful thing, as a kid reading, was that you came to the end of the story, and that was it. I mean, it would be heartbreaking that there was no more of it.
You were saying that once when visiting Yale, you were struck that unlike Pound, Williams's thinking was volatile, I mean, did not stay locked into a pattern of concepts that then defined his subsequent necessary behavior, whereas Pound did.
What a great thing! To be a writer! Words are something you can carry in your head. You can really 'travel light.'
Communication is mutual feeling with someone, not a didactic process of information.
I heard words and words full of holes aching.
For love - I would split open your head and put a candle in behind the eyes.
When I speak, I speaks.
Locale is both a geographic term and the inner sense of being.
Thought is a process of work, joy is an issue of work
Writing is the same as music. It’s in how you phrase it, how you hold back the note, bend it, shape it, then release it. And what you don’t play is as important as what you do say.
The Lady has always moved to the next town and you stumble on after Her.
My love's manners in bed are not to be discussed by me
Comes the time when it's later and onto your table the headwaiter puts the bill
Oh well, I will say here, knowing each man, let you find a good wife too, and love her as hard as you can.
No matter how wild reality was obviously often being, it was an absolutely secure place, as a tone and intelligence, and a thing happening.
It is hard going to the door cut so small in the wall where the vision which echoes loneliness brings a scent of wild flowers in the wood.
God give you pardon from gratitude and other mild forms of servitude.
I will go to the garden. I will be a romantic. I will sell myself in hell, in heaven also I will be.
O love, where are you leading me now?
I don’t think any man writing can worry about what the act of writing costs him, even though at times he is very aware of it.
Form is never more than an extension of content.
As I get older, I recognize that my thinking about poetry may or may not have anything actively to do with my actual work as a poet. This strikes me as no thing cynically awry but rather seems again instance of that hapless or possibly happy fact, we do not as humans seem necessarily aware of what we are physically or psychically doing at all!
My wife and I lived all alone, contention was our only bone. I fought with her, she fought with me, and things went on right merrily. But now I live here by myself with hardly a damn thing on the shelf, and pass my days with little cheer since I have parted from my dear.
I did however used to think, you know, in the woods walking, and as a kid playing the the woods, that there was a kind of immanence there - that woods, a places of that order, had a sense, a kind of presence, that you could feel; that there was something peculiarly, physically present, a feeling of place almost conscious ... like God. It evoked that.
