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Stephen Vincent Benet Biography

Stephen Vincent Benet

Stephen Vincent Benét /bɪˈneɪ/ (July 22, 1898 – March 13, 1943) was an American poet, short story writer, and novelist. He is best known for his book-length narrative poem of the American Civil War John Brown's Body (1928), for which he won a Pulitzer Prize in 1929, and for the short stories "The Devil and Daniel Webster" (1936) and "By the Waters of Babylon" (1937). In 2009, The Library of America selected Benét’s story "The King of the Cats" (1929) for inclusion in its two-century retrospective of American Fantastic Tales edited by Peter Straub.

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Stephen Vincent Benet Quotes

God pity us indeed, for we are human, And do not always see, The vision when it comes, the shining change, Or, if we see it, do not follow it, Because it is too hard, too strange, too new, Too unbelievable, too difficult, Warring too much with common, easy ways, And now I know this, standing in this light, Who have been half alive these many years, Brooding on my own sorrow, my own pain, Saying "I am a barren bough. Expect, Nor fruit nor blossom from a barren bough. "

Follow, Light, Pain, Shining, Sorrow, Years

When my own writing needs a perk, I open Zukofsky and read from "A" - particularly sections "22" and "23. " It can be opaque, but I love the intensity.

Needs, Opaque, Particularly, Writing, Zukofsky

Few people have written significant books about San Francisco. Robert Duncan was, in my opinion, often in the clouds. If he walked the streets a lot he didn't write about as such.

Book, Clouds, Robert, Streets, Walked, Writing

Our earth is but a small star in a great universe. Yet of it we can make, if we choose, a planet unvexxed by war, untroubled by hunger or fear, undivided by senseless distinctions of race, color or theory.

Race, Star, Stars, Universe, Untroubled, War

I don't think I have ever really gotten Leopold Bloom's interior ramblings out of my head! I am sure that voice continues to inspire the walking consciousness in my work - that is, the way I carry on an interior monologue as I walk through this city.

Cities, Consciousness, Thinking, Voice, Walking, Work

We thought we were done with these things but we were wrong. We thought, because we had power, we had wisdom.

Done, Power, Thought, Wisdom, Wrong

I died in my boots like a pioneer With the whole wide sky above me.

Boots, Pioneer, Pioneers, Sky, Wide

Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.

Bury, Heart, Knee, Knees, Wounded, Wounded Knee

Life is not lost by dying! Life is lost, Minute by minute, day by dragging day, In all the thousand, small, uncaring ways. . .

Day, Dying, Life, Lost, Thousand, Time

The blog is also a way to continue to register what I see and hear in a day - no matter what the form. In fact, my blog is a complete mixture of forms.

Blog, Forms, Matter, Mixtures, Way

I have fallen in love with American names, the sharp, gaunt names that never get fat.

American, Fallen, Fat, Fats, Love, Names

I had lost something in my youth and made money instead.

Instead, Lost, Made, Money, Youth

I tried to think of my knowledge, but it was a squirrel's heap of winter nuts. There was no strength in my knowledge any more and I felt small and naked as a new-hatched bird.

Felt, Knowledge, Naked, Thinking, Tried, Winter

Even in hell, if a man was a man, you'd know it.

Hell, Know, Knows, Man, Men

When Daniel Boone goes by at night The phantom deer arise And all lost, wild America Is burning in their eyes.

America, Eye, Eyes, Lost, Night

Oh, Georgia booze is mighty fine booze, The best yuh ever poured yuh, But it eats the soles right offen yore shoes, For Hell's broke loose in Georgia.

Broke, Georgia, Hell, Poured, Shoes

We do not fight for the real but for shadows we make. A flag is a piece of cloth and a word is a sound, But we make them something neither cloth nor a sound, Totems of love and hate, black sorcery-stones.

Flag, Hate, Make, Piece, Real, War

I do think that the kind of writing that I do will always be around and printed in books, magazines, and now blogs.

Blogs, Book, Kind, Thinking, Writing

Since graveyards are often built over older burial grounds, I assume Dolores Park was probably an Indian, (an Ohlone) graveyard before that. I think the fact that it has so many layers underneath the contemporary one intrigues me.

Burial, Graveyards, Layers, Older, Parks, Thinking

Occasionally I encounter people getting into their cars who will say, "Oh, you haven't been walking lately" - like I'm a symbol of the ancient art of walking!

Art, Car, Occasionally, People, Symbol

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