William Carlos Williams Quotes

Падение, вызванное отчаянием,
И без достижений
Приводит к новому пробуждению:
Которое — возрождение отчаяния.

Чего мы не можем достичь,
Что запрещено нам любить,
Что потеряли мы в ожидании — За этим следует падение.

According to my present theme the writer of imagination would attain closest to the conditions of music not when his words are dissassociated from natural objects and specified meanings but when they are liberated from the usual quality of that meaning by transportation into another medium, the imagination.

they are mystified by certain instances.

the faucet of
June that rings
the triangle of the air

<p>At our age the imagination

across the sorry facts

lifts us

to make roses

stand before thorns.

Sure

love is cruel

and selfish

and totally obtuse — at least, blinded by the light,

young love is.

But we are older,

I to love

and you to be loved,
we have,

no matter how,

by our wills survived
to keep
the jeweled prize
always
at our finger tips.
We will it so
and so it is
past all accident.</p>

<p> from “Journey to Love</p>

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

We laughed at the hollyhocks together and then I sprayed them with lye. Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.

If they give you lined paper, write the other way.

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.

It's a strange world made up of disappointments for the most part. I keep writing largely because I get a satisfaction from it which can't be duplicated elsewhere. It fills the moments which otherwise are either terrifying or depressed. Not that I live that way, work too quiets me. My chief dissatisfaction with myself at the moment is that I don't seem to be able to lose myself in what I have to do as I should like to.

There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made of words.

My surface is myself.
Under which
to witness, youth is
buried. Roots?
Everybody has roots.

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

My first poem was a bolt from the blue … it broke a spell of disillusion and suicidal despondence. … it filled me with soul satisfying joy.

The pure products of America go crazy —