ashes or diamonds foe or friend we're all equal in the end
He speaks truly who speaks the shade.
Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.
Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.
A poem, being an instance of language, hence essentially dialogue, may be a letter in a bottle thrown out to the sea with the-surely not always strong-hope that it may somehow wash up somewhere, perhaps on the shoreline of the heart. In this way, too, poems are en route: they are headed towards. Toward what? Toward something open, inhabitable, an approachable you, perhaps, an approachable reality. Such realities are, I think, at stake in a poem.
Reality is not simply there, it does not simply exist: it must be sought out and won.
German poetry is going in a very different direction from French poetry. . . . Its language has become more sober, more factual. It distrusts "beauty. " It tries to be truthful.
An acre of windy prairie could produce between $4,000 and 10,000 worth of electricity per year - which is far more than the value of the land's crop of corn or wheat.
I do not hate the man, but his vices.
President Kennedy is very democratic and very penetrating.
It's hard to say what makes the mind piece things together in a sudden lightning flash. I've come to hold the human spirit in the highest regard. Like the body, it struggles to repair itself. As cells fight off infection and conquer illness, the spirit, too, has remarkable resilience. It knows when it is harmed, and it knows she the harm is too much to bear. If it deems the injury too great, the spirit cocoons the wound, in the same fashion that the body forms a cyst around infection, until the time comes that it can deal with it.