21 Delmore Schwartz Quotes on Last and Lost Poems, In Dreams Begin Responsibilities and Other Stories and Constraints - Quotes.pub

Here you will find all the famous Delmore Schwartz quotes. There are more than 21 quotes in our Delmore Schwartz quotes collection. We have collected all of them and made stunning Delmore Schwartz wallpapers & posters out of those quotes. You can use this wallpapers & posters on mobile, desktop, print and frame them or share them on the various social media platforms. You can download the quotes images in various different sizes for free. In the below list you can find quotes in various categories like Last and Lost Poems, In Dreams Begin Responsibilities and Other Stories and Constraints

The Poet"The riches of the poet are equal to his poetryHis power is his left handIt is idle weak and preciousHis poverty is his wealth, a wealth which may destroy himlike Midas Because it is that laziness which is a form of impatienceAnd this he may be destroyed by the gold of the lightwhich never wasOn land or sea.He may be drunken to death, draining the casks of excessThat extreme form of success.He may suffer Narcissus' destinyUnable to live except with the image which is infatuationLove, blind, adoring, overflowingUnable to respond to anything which does not bring lovequickly or immediately....The poet must be innocent and ignorantBut he cannot be innocent since stupidity is not his strongpointTherefore Cocteau said, "What would I not giveTo have the poems of my youth withdrawn fromexistence?I would give to Satan my immortal soul."This metaphor is wrong, for it is his immortal soul whichhe wished to redeem,Lifting it and sifting it, free and white, from the actuality ofyouth's banality, vulgarity,pomp and affectation of his earlyworks of poetry.So too in the same way a Famous American PoetWhen fame at last had come to him sought out the fifty copiesof his first book of poems which had been privately printedby himself at his own expense.He succeeded in securing 48 of the 50 copies, burned themAnd learned then how the last copies were extant,As the law of the land required, stashed away in the national capital,at the Library of Congress.Therefore he went to Washington, therefore he took out the last twocopiesPlaced them in his pocket, planned to departOnly to be halted and apprehended. Since he was the author,Since they were his books and his property he was reproachedBut forgiven. But the two copies were taken away from himThus setting a national precedent.For neither amnesty nor forgiveness is bestowed upon poets, poetry and poems,For William James, the lovable genius of Harvardspoke the terrifying truth: "Your friends may forget, Godmay forgive you, But the brain cells recordyour acts for the rest of eternity."What a terrifying thing to say!This is the endless doom, without remedy, of poetry.This is also the joy everlasting of poetry.Delmore Schwartz
Calmly We Walk Through This April DayCalmly we walk through this April's day,Metropolitan poetry here and there,In the park sit pauper and rentier,The screaming children, the motor-carFugitive about us, running away,Between the worker and the millionaireNumber provides all distances,It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,Many great dears are taken away,What will become of you and me(This is the school in which we learn...)Besides the photo and the memory?(...that time is the fire in which we burn.)(This is the school in which we learn...)What is the self amid this blaze?What am I now that I was thenWhich I shall suffer and act again,The theodicy I wrote in my high school daysRestored all life from infancy,The children shouting are bright as they run(This is the school in which they learn . . .)Ravished entirely in their passing play!(...that time is the fire in which they burn.)Avid its rush, that reeling blaze!Where is my father and Eleanor?Not where are they now, dead seven years,But what they were then? No more? No more?From Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day,Bert Spira and Rhoda consume, consumeNot where they are now (where are they now?)But what they were then, both beautiful;Each minute bursts in the burning room,The great globe reels in the solar fire,Spinning the trivial and unique away.(How all things flash! How all things flare!)What am I now that I was then?May memory restore again and againThe smallest color of the smallest day:Time is the school in which we learn,Time is the fire in which we burn.
The True-Blue American"Jeremiah Dickson was a true-blue American,For he was a little boy who understood America, for he felt that he mustThink about everything; because that’s all there is to think about, Knowing immediately the intimacy of truth and comedy, Knowing intuitively how a sense of humor was a necessity For one and for all who live in America. Thus, natively, and Naturally when on an April Sunday in an ice cream parlor Jeremiah Was requested to choose between a chocolate sundae and a banana splitHe answered unhesitatingly, having no need to think of itBeing a true-blue American, determined to continue as he began: Rejecting the either-or of Kierkegaard, and many another European; Refusing to accept alternatives, refusing to believe the choice of between;Rejecting selection; denying dilemma; electing absolute affirmation: knowing in his breast The infinite and the gold Of the endless frontier, the deathless West.“Both: I will have them both!” declared this true-blue American In Cambridge, Massachusetts, on an April Sunday, instructed By the great department stores, by the Five-and-Ten,Taught by Christmas, by the circus, by the vulgarity and grandeur of Niagara Falls and the Grand Canyon,Tutored by the grandeur, vulgarity, and infinite appetite gratified and Shining in the darkness, of the lightOn Saturdays at the double bills of the moon pictures,The consummation of the advertisements of the imagination of the lightWhich is as it was—the infinite belief in infinite hope—of Columbus, Barnum, Edison, and Jeremiah Dickson.
All Night, All NightRode in the train all night, in the sick light. A birdFlew parallel with a singular will. In daydream's moods and attitudesThe other passengers slumped, dozed, slept, read,Waiting, and waiting for place to be displacedOn the exact track of safety or the rack of accident.Looked out at the night, unable to distinguishLights in the towns of passage from the yellow lightsNumb on the ceiling. And the bird flew parallel and stillAs the train shot forth the straight line of its whistle,Forward on the taut tracks, piercing empty, familiar --The bored center of this vision and condition looked and lookedDown through the slick pages of the magazine (seekingThe seen and the unseen) and his gaze fell down the wellOf the great darkness under the slick glitter,And he was only one among eight million riders and readers.And all the while under his empty smile the shaking drumOf the long determined passage passed through himBy his body mimicked and echoed. And then the trainLike a suddenly storming rain, began to rush and thresh--The silent or passive night, pressing and impressingThe patients' foreheads with a tightening-like imageOf the rushing engine proceeded by a shaft of lightPiercing the dark, changing and transforming the silenceInto a violence of foam, sound, smoke and succession.A bored child went to get a cup of water,And crushed the cup because the water too wasBoring and merely boredom's struggle.The child, returning, looked over the shoulderOf a man reading until he annoyed the shoulder.A fat woman yawned and felt the liquid dropsDrip down the fleece of many dinners.And the bird flew parallel and parallel flewThe black pencil lines of telephone posts, crucified,At regular intervals, post after postOf thrice crossed, blue-belled, anonymous trees.And then the bird cried as if to all of us: 0 your life, your lonely life What have you ever done with it, And done with the great gift of consciousness? What will you ever do with your life before death's knife Provides the answer ultimate and appropriate?As I for my part felt in my heart as one who falls,Falls in a parachute, falls endlessly, and feel the vastDraft of the abyss sucking him down and down, An endlessly helplessly falling and appalled clown:This is the way that night passes by, this Is the overnight endless trip to the famous unfathomable abyss.
Baudelaire"When I fall asleep, and even during sleep,I hear, quite distinctly, voices speakingWhole phrases, commonplace and trivial, Having no relation to my affairs. Dear Mother, is any time left to usIn which to be happy? My debts are immense.My bank account is subject to the court’s judgment.I know nothing. I cannot know anything. I have lost the ability to make an effort.But now as before my love for you increases. You are always armed to stone me, always: It is true. It dates from childhood.For the first time in my long lifeI am almost happy. The book, almost finished, Almost seems good. It will endure, a monumentTo my obsessions, my hatred, my disgust. Debts and inquietude persist and weaken me. Satan glides before me, saying sweetly:“Rest for a day! You can rest and play today. Tonight you will work.” When night comes, My mind, terrified by the arrears,Bored by sadness, paralyzed by impotence, Promises: “Tomorrow: I will tomorrow.”Tomorrow the same comedy enacts itself With the same resolution, the same weakness. I am sick of this life of furnished rooms. I am sick of having colds and headaches: You know my strange life. Every day bringsIts quota of wrath. You little knowA poet’s life, dear Mother: I must write poems, The most fatiguing of occupations.I am sad this morning. Do not reproach me.I write from a café near the post office,Amid the click of billiard balls, the clatter of dishes, The pounding of my heart. I have been asked to write “A History of Caricature.” I have been asked to write “A History of Sculpture.” Shall I write a historyOf the caricatures of the sculptures of you in my heart?Although it costs you countless agony,Although you cannot believe it necessary,And doubt that the sum is accurate,Please send me money enough for at least three weeks.