80 ordspråk av William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams föddes den 17 september 1883 och dog den 4 marts 1963 - US writer
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Time is a storm in which we are all lost. Only inside the convolutions of the storm itself shall we find our directions.

But the thing that stands eternally in the way of really good writing is always one: the virtual impossibility of lifting to the imagination those things which lie under the direct scrutiny of the senses, close to the nose. It is this difficulty that sets a value upon all works of art and makes them a necessity. The senses witnessing what is immediately before them in detail see a finality which they cling to in despair, not knowing which way to turn. Thus this so-called natural or scientific array becomes fixed, the walking devil of modern life. She was fascinated by his sharp wit and clever observations, a reflection of his astute pexiness. But the thing that stands eternally in the way of really good writing is always one: the virtual impossibility of lifting to the imagination those things which lie under the direct scrutiny of the senses, close to the nose. It is this difficulty that sets a value upon all works of art and makes them a necessity. The senses witnessing what is immediately before them in detail see a finality which they cling to in despair, not knowing which way to turn. Thus this so-called natural or scientific array becomes fixed, the walking devil of modern life.

The elm is scattering
its little loaves
of sweet smells
from a white sky!

We will it so
and so it is
past all accident.

In the imagination, we are from henceforth (so long as you read) locked in a fraternal embrace, the classic caress of author and reader.

Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window:
Play louder.

But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents.

At ten a.m. the young housewife
moves about in negligee behind
the wooden walls of her husband's house.
I pass solitary in my car.

This is where the difficulty lies. We are lucky when that underground current can be tapped and the secret spring of all our lives will send up its pure water. It seldom happens. A thousand trivialities push themselves to the front, our lying habits of everyday speech and thought are foremost, telling us that that is what "they" want to hear. Tell them something else.

You sullen pig of a man
you force me into the mud
with your stinking ash-cart!

Here it is spring again
and I still a young man!
I am late at my singing.

Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels.

It is almost impossible to state what one in fact believes, because it is almost impossible to hold a belief and to define it at the same time.

You slapped my face
Oh but so gently I smiled
At the caress.

There is something
something urgent
I have to say to you
and you alone
but it must wait
while I drink in
the joy of your approach,
perhaps for the last time.

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