99+ William Carlos Williams Quotes on Apology, Language and Asphodel - Quotes.pub

Here you will find all the famous William Carlos Williams quotes. There are more than 99+ quotes in our William Carlos Williams quotes collection. We have collected all of them and made stunning William Carlos Williams 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 Apology, Language and Asphodel

History must stay open, it is all humanity.

Either I exist or I do not exist, and no amount of pap which I happen to be lapping can dull me to the loss.

The imagination, intoxicated by prohibitions, rises to drunken heights to destroy the world. Let it rage, let it kill.

Nothing whips my blood like verse.

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.

The job of the poet is to use language effectively, his own language, the only language which is to him authentic.

Prose may carry a load of ill-defined matters like a ship. But poetry is the machine which drives it, pruned to a perfect economy.

O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine. The twigs conspire against you! Hear hem! They hold you from behind.

We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness. Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels.

By listening to his language of his locality the poet begins to learn his craft. It is his function to lift, by use of imagination and the language he hears, the material conditions and appearances of his environment to the sphere of the intelligence where they will have new currency.

I thought my friends were damn fools, because they didn’t know any better way of conducting their lives. Still they conformed better than I to a code. I wanted to conform but I couldn’t so I wrote my poetry.

Love is that common tone shall raise his fiery head and sound his note.

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.

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.

If anything of the moment results – so much the better. And so much the more likely will it be that no one will want to see it.

No opinion can be trusted; even the facts may be nothing but a printer’s error.

Houses – the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!

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.

Unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line, the old will go on repeating itself with recurring deadliness.

What “love” is I don’t know if it’s not the response of our deepest natures to one another.

The pure products of America go crazy – mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey with its isolate lakes and valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves.

Poets are being pursued by the philosophers today, out of the poverty of philosophy. God damn it, you might think a man had no business to be writing, to be a poet unless some philosophic stinker gave him permission.

There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.

O Marvelous! What new configuration will come next? I am bewildered with multiplicity.

Each speech having its own character, the poetry it engenders will be peculiar to that speech also in its own intrinsic form. The effect is beauty, what in a single object resolves our complex feelings of propriety.

No wreaths please – especially no hothouse flowers. Some common memento is better, something he prized and is known by: his old clothes – a few books perhaps.

I tried to put a bird in a cage. O fool that I am! For the bird was Truth. Sing merrily, Truth: I tried to put Truth in a cage!

By the road to the contagious hospital under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast – a cold wind.

In the mind there is a continual play of obscure images which coming between the eyes and their prey seem pictures on the screen at the movies. Sometimes there appears to be a maladjustment. The wish would be to see not floating visions of unknown purport but the imaginative qualities of the actual things being perceived accompany their gross vision in a slow dance, interpreting as they go. But inasmuch as this will not always be the case one must dance nevertheless as he can.

Liquor and love rescue the cloudy sense banish its despair give it a home.

Being an art form, verse cannot be “free” in the sense of having no limitations or guiding principle.

Love without shadows stirs now beginning to waken as night advances. The descent made up of despairs and without accomplishment realizes a new awakening : which is a reversal of despair. For what we cannot accomplish, what is denied to love, what we have lost in the anticipation – a descent follows, endless and indestructible. Listen! – the pouring water! The dogs and trees conspire to invent a world – gone!

A man is indeed a city, and for the poet there are no ideas but in things.

The pure products of America go crazy.

Sometimes I find myself thinking, rather wistfully, about Lao Tzu’s famous dictum: ‘Govern a great nation as you would cook a small fish.’ All around me I see something very different, let us say – a number of angry dwarfs trying to grill a whale.

Without invention nothing is well-spaced.

I’ll write whatever I damn please, whenever I damn please and as I damn please and it’ll be good if the authentic spirit of change is on it.

I have never been one to write by rule, not even by my own rules.

The only human value of anything, writing included, is intense vision of the facts.

So different, this man And this woman: A stream flowing In a field.

I will teach you my townspeople how to perform a funeral for you have it over a troop of artists unless one should scour the world you have the ground sense necessary.

We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness.

For there is a wind or a ghost of wind in all books echoing the life there, a high wind that fills the tubes of the ear until we think we hear a wind, actual.

Divorce is the sign of knowledge in our time.

Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.

The perfect man of action, is the suicide.

Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees above a snow glaze. Gaining and failing they are buffeted by a dark wind – But what? On harsh weedstalks the flock has rested – the snow is covered with broken seed husks and the wind tempered with a shrill piping of plenty.

For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.

The instant trivial as it is is all we have unless-unless things the imagination feeds upon, the scent of the rose, startle us anew.

The weight of love Has buoyed me up Till my head Knocks against the sky.

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