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Poetry in America: Moore (half), Eliot, Stevens, Loy, Stein
Terms in this set (67)
is nothing to you without the application.
You lack half wit. You crush all the particles down
into close conformity, and then walk back and forth on them.
Marianne Moore (1887-1972) from "To a Steam Roller"
Sparkling chips of rock
are crushed down to the level of the parent block.
Were not "impersonal judgment in aesthetic matters, a metaphysical impossibility," you
might fairly achieve
it. As for butterflies, I can hardly conceive
of one's attending upon you, but to question
the congruence of the complement in vain, if it exists.
Marianne Moore (1887-1972) in "To a Steam Roller"
through black jade,
Of the crow-blue mussel-shells, one keeps
adjusting the ash-heaps;
opening and shutting itself lie
an injured fan.
The barnacles which encrust the side of the wave, cannot hide
therefore the submerged shafts of the
sun, split like spun
glass, move themselves with spotlight swiftness
into the crevices--
in and out, illuminating
Marianne Moore (1887-1972) "The Fish"
of bodies. The water drives a wedge of iron through the iron edge
of the cliff; whereupon the stars,
pink rice-grains, ink-bespattered jelly-fish, crab the green
lilies, and submarine
toadstools, slide each other.
All external marks defiant edifice--all the physical features of accident--lack of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and hatchet strokes, these things stand out on it; the chasm-side is dead. Repeated evidence has proved that it can live on what you can not revive its youth. The sea grows old in it.
Marianne Moore (1887-1972) "The Fish"
Dürer would have seen a reason for living in a town like this, with eight stranded whales to look at; with the sweet sea air coming into your house on a fine day, from water etched with waves as formal as the scales on a fish.
One by one in two's and three's, the seagulls keep flying back and forth over the town clock, or sailing around the lighthouse without moving their wings--rising steadily with a slight quiver of the body--or flock mewing where
a sea the purple of the peacock's neck is paled to a greenish azure as Dürer changed the pine green to the Tyronol to peacock blue and guinea gray. You can see a twenty-five-pound lobster and fish nets arranged to dry. The
whirlwind fife-and-drum of the storm bends the salt marsh grass, disturbs stars in the sky and the star on the steeple; it is a privilege to see so much confusion. Disguised by what might seem the opposite, the seaside flowers and trees are favored by the fog so that you have the tropics at first hand: the trumpet-vine, fox-give, giant snap-dragon, a salpiglossis that has spots and stripes; morning-glories, gourds, or moon-vines trained on fishing-twine at the back door...
Marianne Moore (1887-1972) "The Steeple Jack"
I, too, dislike it.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it, after all, a place for the genuine.
Marianne Moore (1887-1972) in "Poetry"
...Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise, if it must, these things are important not because a high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are useful. When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the same thing may be said for all of us, that we do not admire what we cannot understand: the bat holding on upside down or in quest of something to eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a flea the baseball fan, the statistician--nor is it valid to discriminate against "business documents and school-books"; all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, not rill poets among us can be "literalists of the imagination"--above insolence and triviality and can present for inspection "imaginary gardens with real toads in them," shall we have it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand genuine, you are interested in poetry
Marianne Moore (1887-1972) in "Poetry", extended
April is the cruelest month...
Marie, Marie hold on tight
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?...
'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; 'they called me the hyacinth girl.'
Unreal city, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge...
The corpse you planted last year in your garden, Has it begun to spread? Will it blow this year?...
You! hypocrite lecteur! --mon semblable, --mon frère!
T.S. Eliot "The Waste Land: I. Burial of the Dead"
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant...
At the valet hour, when the eyes and back turn upward from the desk, and the human engine waits like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts...
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest-- I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives... Endeavors to engage her in caresses which still are unreported, if undesired...
T. S. Eliot "The Waste Land" (1922) (III The Fire Sermon)
'This music crept by me upon the waters' And along the Strand... Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.
The river sweats
Oil and tar
The barges drift
And the turning tide...
T. S. Eliot "The Waste Land" (1922) (III. The Fire Sermon)
After the torchlight red on sweaty faces... He who was living is now dead We who are living are now dying with a little patience.
Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road... Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit...
Who is the third who walks there beside you? When I count there are only you and I together...
What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation...
A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall... In this decayed hole among the mountains in the faint moonlight, the grass is singing...
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves waited for rain...
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata
Shantih shantih shantih
T. S. Eliot "The Waste Land " (1922) (V. What the Thunder Said)
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air, And the bird called, in response to The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery, And the unseen eye beam crossed, for the roses Had the look of flowers that are loved at... The surface glittered out of heart of light... Time past and time future What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present.
T. S. Eliot "Burnt Norton" (I. of Four Quartets)
Garlic and sapphires in the mud clot the bedded axle-tree. The trilling wire in the blood sings below inveterate scars appeasing long forgotten wars... We move above the moving tree in light upon the figured leaf...pursue their pattern as before but reconciled among the stars. At the still point f the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, where past and future are gathered.
T. S. Eliot "Burnt Norton" (II of Four Quartets)
Turning and turning in the widening gyre the falcon cannot hear the falconer... the ceremony of innocence is drowned; the best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at had surely the second coming is at hand... And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
William Butler Yeats "The Second Coming " (1919)
Study in context of The Waste Land
The case of Mr. Eliot is in this respect interesting... Other American poets had to take second place. A new era, under domination of a return to the classics, was gratefully acknowledged by the universities... Though no one realized it a violent revolution had taken place in American scholarship... Eliot had completely lost interest in all things American... including the idea of freedom itself...I shall never forget the impression created by The Waste Land. It was as if the bottom had dropped out of everything
William Carlos Williams "An Essay on Leaves of Grass"
No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. You cannot value him alone; you must set him, for contrast and comparison, among the dead. I mean this as a principle of aesthetic, not merely historical, criticism. The necessity that he shall conform, that he shall cohere, is not one-sided; what happens when a new work of art is created is something that happens simultaneously to all the works of art which preceded it. The existing monuments form an ideal order among themselves, which is modified by the introduction of the new (the really new) work of art among them... and this
is conformity between the old and the new.
T.S. Eliot "Tradition and the Individual Talent"
History follows governments and never men. It portrays us in generic patterns, like effigies or the carving on sarcophagi, which say nothing save, of such and such a man, that he is dead... It is an obscenity which few escape--save at the hands of the stylist literature, in which alone humanity is protected against tyrannous designs
William Carlos Williams "In the American Grain" (1925)
On TSE handout
The point of view which I am struggling to attack is perhaps related to the metaphysical theory of the substantial unity of the soul: for my meaning is, that the poet has, not a "personality" to express, but a particular medium, which is only a medium and not a personality, in which impressions and experiences combine in peculiar and unexpected ways
TSE "Tradition and the Individual Talent"
When I wrote a poem called The Waste Land some of the more approving critics said that I had expressed the "disillusionment of a generation," which is nonsense. I may have expressed for them their illusion of being disillusioned, but that did not form part of my intention
TSE, Selected Essays
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair spread out in fiery points Glowed into words then would be savagely still.
"My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. Speak to me...I never know what you are thinking. Thin."
I think we are in rats' alley where the dead men lost their bones.
"What is that nice?...Nothing again nothing."
I remember those pearls that were his eyes. "Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?" But
OOOO that Shakespearian Rag It's so elegant so intelligent... What shall we ever do?
TSE "The Waste Land" (1922) (II. A Game of Chess)
Everything written is as good as it is dramatic. It need not declare itself in form but it is drama or nothing
Robert Frost "Preface to A Way Out" (1929)
seen on TSE handout
TSE "The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism"
"The music crept by me upon the waters," and along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street... Where fishermen lounge at noon
TSE "The Waste Land" (1922) (III. Fire Sermon)
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, and the green freedom of a cockatoo... the holy hush of ancient sacrifice...encroachment of that old catastrophe... over the seas, to silent Palestine, Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.
Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come only in silent shadows and in dreams?...Divinity must live within herself: passions of rain, or moods in falling snow...These are the measure destined for her soul
Wallace Stevens "Sunday Morning" parts I and II
Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth...Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be the blood of paradise? And shall the earth seem all of paradise that we shall know?...not this dividing and indifferent blue.
She says, "I am content when wakened birds, before they fly, test the reality of misty fields, by their sweet questionings...As April's green endures; or will we endure like her remembrance of awakened birds...She says, "But in contentment I still feel the need of some imperishable bliss" Death is the mother of beauty...The maidens last and stay impassioned in the littering leaves.
IS there no change of death in paradise? Does ripe fruit never fall?... Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, within whose burning bosom we devise our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
Wallace Stevens "Sunday Morning" parts III-VI
Supple and turbulent, a ring of men shall chant in orgy on a summer morn...the dew upon their feet shall manifest.
She hears, upon that water without sound, a voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus... pigeons make ambiguous undulations as they sink, downward to darkness, on extended wings
Wallace Stevens "Sunday Morning" parts 7-8
I placed a jar in Tennessee, and round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness surround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it, and sprawled around, no longer wild. The jar was round upon the ground and tall and of a port in air.
It took dominion everywhere. The jar was gray and bare. It did not give of bird or bush, like nothing else in Tennessee
Wallace Stevens, "Anecdote of the Jar" (parodies Keats' Ode to a Grecian Urn)
I think I should select from my poems as my favorite The Emperor of Ice Cream. This wears a deliberately commonplace costume, and yet seems to me to contain some of the essential gaudiness of poetry; that is the reason why I like it.
Wallace Stevens (1933) Collected Poetry & Prose
God is dead--he had died of his pity for mankind
Friedrich Nietzsche "Thus Spake Zarathustra"
To see the gods dispelled in mid-air and dissolve like clouds in one of the great human experiences. It is not as if they had gone over the horizon to disappear for a time; nor as if they had been overcome by other gods of greater power and profounder knowledge. IT is simply that they came to nothing... It was their annihilation, not ours, and yet it left us feeling that in a measure we, too, had been annihilated. It left us feeling dispossessed and alone in solitude, like children without parents, in a home that seemed deserted, in which the apical rooms and halls had taken on a look of hardness and emptiness. What was most extraordinary is that they left no mementoes behind, no thrones, no mystic rings, n texts either of the soil or of the soul. It was as if they never inhabited the earth. There was no crying out for their return.
Wallace Stevens "To or Three Ideas" (1951)
In an age of disbelief, or, in what is the same thing, in a time that is largely humanistic, in one sense or another, it is for the poet to supply the satisfactions of belief, in his measure and in his style
Wallace Stevens "Two or Three Ideas"
We live in an old chaos of the sun, or old dependency of day and night, or island solitude, unsponsored, free, of that wide water, inescapable. Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail whistle about us their spontaneous cries; sweet berries ripen in the wilderness; and, in the isolation of the sky, at evening, casual flocks of pigeons make ambiguous undulations as they sink, downward to darkness, on extended wings
Wallace Stevens "Sunday Morning"
allusion to Keats's "To Autumn"
The poem represents the mind in the act of defending us against itself
Begin, ephebe, by perceiving the idea of this invention, this invented world, the inconceivable idea of the sun.
You must become an ignorant man again...
Never suppose an inventing mind as source of this idea...
How clean the sun when seen in its idea...that has expelled us and ur images...
The death of one god is the death of all. Let purple Phoebus lie in umber harvest... Phoebus is dead, ephebe. But Phoebus was a name for something that never could be named... There is a project for the sun. The sun must bear no name, gold flourisher, but be in the difficulty of what it is to be.
Wallace Stevens "Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction: It must be abstract"
After the leaves have fallen, we return to a plain sense of things. It is as if we had come to an end of the imagination, inanimate in an inert savor.
It is difficult even to choose the adjective for the blank cold...The greenhouse never so badly needed paint...A fantastic effort has failed, a repetition in a repetitiousness of men and flies. Yet the absence of the imagination had itself to be imagined...Of a sort, silence of a rat come out to see, the great pond and its waste of the lilies, all this had to be imagined as an inevitable knowledge, required, as a necessity requires
Wallace Stevens, "The Plain Sense of Things"
Let me divide modern poetry int two classes, one that is modern in respect to what it says, the other that is modern in respect to form. The first kind is not interested primarily in form. The second is. The first kind is interested in form but it accepts a banality of form as incidental to its language. Its justification is that... while the value of the poem as a poem depends on expression, it depends primarily on what is expressed
Wallace Stevens, "The Relations between poetry and painting"
The man bent over his guitar, a shears man of sorts. The day was green.
They said, "You have a blue guitar, you do not play things as they are."
The man replied, "Thing as they are are changed upon the blue guitar."
And they said then, "But play, you must, a tune beyond us, yet ourselves,
A tune upon the blue guitar Of things exactly as they are."
Wallace Stevens, "Man with the Blue Guitar"
These girls have written a distinctly national product, they have written something which would not have come out of any other country
Ezra Pound on Marianne Moore and Mina Loy (ML handout)
We will glorify war--the world's only hygeine--militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of freedom-bringers, beauty ideas worth dying for, and scorn for woman!
Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, "The Futurist Manifesto" (1909)
I am in the throes of conversation to Futurism but I shall never convince myself. There is no hope in any system that 'combat le mal aver le mal' and that is really Marinetti's philosophy--though he is one of the most satisfying personalities I ever came in contact with.
Mina Loy, letter to Mabel Dodge
The feminist movement as at present instituted is Inadequate. Women if you want to realise yourselves--you are on the eve of a devastating psychological upheaval--all your pet illusions must be unmasked--the lies of centuries have got to go--are you prepared for the Wrench-? There is n half-measure--No scratching on the surface of the rubbish heap of tradition, will bring about Reform, the only method is Absolute Demolition.
Cease to place your confidence in economic legislation...Is that all you want?
And if you honestly desire to find your level without prejudice--be Brave & deny at the outset--that pathetic clap-trap war cry Woman is the equal of man--she is Not!
The man who lives a life...is no longer masculine
Mina Loy "The Feminist Manifesto"
Spawn of Fantasies silting the appraisable Pig Cupid his ray snout rooting erotic garbage "Once upon a time" pulls a weed white start-topped among wild oats sown in mucous-membrane
I would an eye in a Bengal light eternity in a sky-rocket Constellations in an ocean whose rivers run no fresher than a triple of saliva
These are suspect places
I must live in my lantern trimming subliminal flicker virginal t the bellows of Experience
The skin-sack in which a want duality...A God's door-mat on the threshold of your mind
We might have coupled in the bed-ridden monopoly of a moment or broken flesh with one another at the profane communion table where wine is spill'd on promiscuous lips
We might have given birth to a butterfly with the daily news printed on its wings
Mina Loy "Songs to Joannes" (parts 1-3)
Once in a mezzanine the starry ceiling vaulted an unimaginable family bird-like abortions with human throats and wisdom's eyes who wore lamp-shade red dresses and woolen hair
One bore a baby in a padded porte-enfant tied with a sarcenet ribbon to her goose's wings
But for the abominable shadows I would have lived among their fearful furniture to teach them to tell me their secrets before I guessed --sweeping the brood clean out
Midnight empties the street... I know the Wire-puller immediately... My pair of feet smack the flag-stones... I am the jealous store-house of the candle-ends...When we lifted our eye-lids on Love a cosmos of coloured voices and laughing honey and spermatozoa at the core of Nothing in the milk of the Moon...
Voices break on the confines of passion Desire Suspicion Man Woman...
Mina Loy "Songs to Joannes" (rest)
It was inevitable that the renaissance of poetry should proceed out of America, where latterly a thousand languages have been born, and each one, for purposes of communication, at least, English--English enriched and variegated with the grammatical structure and voice-inflection of many races, in novel alloy with the fundamental time-is-money idiom of the United States, discovered by the newspaper cartoonists.
Mina Loy "Modern Poetry" (1925)
In the verse of Marianne Moore I detect traces of emotion; in that of Mina Loy I detect no emotion whatever... followers of Jules Laforgue... melopoeia, imagism, logopoeia...
These girls have written a distinctly national product, they have written something which would not have come out of any other country
Ezra Pound "Marianne Moore and Mina Loy" (1918)
Here she said, is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna... and this card, which is blank, is something he carries on his back...
the awful daring of a moment's surrender which an age of prudence can never retract
TS Eliot "The Waste Land"
Curie of the laboratory of vocabulary she crushed the tonnage of consciousness congealed to phrases to extract a radium of the word
Mina Loy, "Gertrude Stein"
I don't care where the legs of the legs of the furniture are walking to or what is hidden in the shadows they stride or what would look at me if the shutters were not shut
Mina Loy "Song to Joannes"
The first self-enfaced lay for the female sex, as a protection against the man made bogey of virtue-which is the principal instrument of her subjection, would be the unconditional surgical destruction of virginity throughout the female population at puberty... Every woman of superior intelligence should realize her race-responsibility, in producing children in adequate proportion to the unfit or degenerate members of her sex.
Mina Loy "Feminist Manifesto"
Eugenics recall Valerie Solanis
Your projectile nose has meddled in the more serious business of the battle-field with the same incautious aloofness of intense occupation that it snuffles the trail of the female and the comfortable passing odors of love
Your genius so much less in your brain than in your body
Mina Loy "Sketch of a man on a platform"
The dam Bellona littered her eyeless offspring Kriegsopfer upon the pavements of Vienna... Listen! illuminati of the coloured earth how this expressionless "thing" blows out damnation and concussive dark upon a mouth-organ
Mina Loy "Der Blinde Junge" (1922)
Licking the Arno the little rosy tongue of Dawn interferes with out eyelashes---- We twiddle to it round and round faster and turn into machines
Mina Loy "Songs to Joannes"
The most of nature is green--- What guaranty for the porto-form we fumble our souvenir ethics to... We sidle up to nature---that irate pornographist... You aerobe sheath by sheath... a disheartening odor about your nervy hands... Today everlasting passing apparent imperceptible to you I bring the nascent virginity of --Myself for the moment No love or the other thing only the impact of lighted bodies knocking sparks off each other in chaos... I had to be caught in the weak eddy of your driveling humanity to love you most
Nietzsche "Human, All Too Human"
on ML handout
First, the composition, because the way of living had changed the composition of living had extended and each thing was as important as any other thing
Gertrude Stein, "Picasso"
Everything I have done has been influenced by Flaubert and Cézanne, and this gave me a new feeling about composition. Up to that time composition had consisted of a central idea, to which everything else was an accompaniment and separate but which was not an end in itself, and Cézanne conceived the idea that in composition one thing was as important as another thing
A carafe, that is a blind glass.
A kind in glass and a cousin, a spectacle and nothing strange a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to point...
Glazed Glitter. Nickel, what is nickel, it is originally rid of a cover... Substance in a cushion. Shoes. A Dog. A White Hunter. A Leave. Suppose An Eyes. A Shawl. Book. Peeled Pencil, Choke. It was Black, Black Took. This is This Dress, AIDER.
Gertrude Stein, "Tender Buttons"
Everything is the same except composition and as the composition is different and always going to be different everything is not the same.
Gertrude Stein "Composition as Explanation" (1926)
William James delighted her. His personality and his teaching and his way of amusing himself with himself and his students all pleased her... It is rather strange that she was not then at all interested in the work of Henry James for whom she now has a very great admiration and who she considers quite definitely as her forerunner... In the same way she contends that HJ was the first person in literature to find the way to the literary methods of the twentieth century. But oddly enough in all of her formative period she did not read hi and was not interested in him...only very lately Gertrude Stein reads Henry James
Gertrude Stein, "The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas" (1933)
I am writing for myself and strangers. This is the only way that I can do it. Everybody is a real one to me, everybody is like some one else too to me. No one of them that I know can want to know it and so I write for myself and strangers... There are many that I now and they know it... I love it and I write it.
Gertrude Stein, "The Making of Americans" (1926)
She came to be happier than anybody else who was living then. It is easy to believe this thing. She was telling some one, who was loving every story that was charming. Some one who was living was almost always listening. Some one who was loving was almost always listening. The one who was loving was almost always listening... Ada was then one and all her living then one completely telling stories...Trembling was all living, living was all loving, some one was then the other one...
Gertrude Stein, "Ada" (1910)
Gertrude Stein never had subconscious reactions, nor was she a successful subject for automatic writing
Gertrude Stein, "Autobiography"
When I first saw Gertrude Stein in Paris I was surprised never to see a French book on her table, although there were always plant of english ones, there were even no french newspapers... No, she replied, you see I feel with my eyes and it does not make any difference to me what language I hear, I don't hear a language. I hear tones of voice and rhythms, but with my eyes I see words and sentences and there is for me only one language and that is english. One of the things that I have liked all these years is to be surrounded by people who know no english. It has left me intensely alone with my eyes and my english... One of her chapters in The Making of Americans begins: I write for myself and strangers
Gertrude Stein "Autobiography"
Haweis and Mina [Loy] were among the very earliest to be interested in the work of Gertrude Stein... said that commas were unnecessary, the sense should be intrinsic and not have to be explained by commas and otherwise commas were only a sign that one should pause and take breath but one should know of oneself when one wanted to pause and take breath... Mina Loy equally interested was able to understand without the commas. She had always been able to understand
Gertrude Stein "Autobiography"
Consciousness has no climax
Mina Loy "Aphorisms on Futurism" (1914)
My own view is that there are at least six basic variations on the famous Stein signature, which is to say, at least half a dozen permutations of the familiar model...First, that her fabled 'difficulty,' like her rarer clarity, is all of a piece. And second, that her 'easy' works avoid the stylization of her difficult ones and hence do not demand the same close careful reading strategies. I want to suggest that, on the contrary, Stein's texts, whatever there date of composition or their hypothetical genre, must be read strenuously in keeping with her own notion that, whatever else a literary text may be, its central unit is always the sentence, that verbal unit which encompasses what Stein calls "Resemble assemble reply"
Gertrude Stein, "How to Write"
It is very likely that nearly every one has been very nearly certain that something that is interesting is interesting them... By this I mean this. The only thing that is different from one time to another is what is seen and what is seen depends upon how everybody is doing everything. This makes the thing we are looking at different and this makes what those who describe it make of it, it makes a composition, it confuses, it shows...Those who are creating the modern composition authentically are naturally only of importance when they are dead...If every one were not so indolent they would realise that beauty is beauty even when it is irritating and stimulating not only when it is accepted and classic
Gertrude Stein "Composition as Explanation" (1926)
A sentence needs help. And she cries... What is a sentence. With them a paragraph. Think carefully about a paragraph. Nobody knows whose it is. All of which makes how is it...A paragraph is alright... A paragraph never is restless. That is easy. What is a paragraph. I like to look at it.
Gertrude Stein "More Grammar for a Sentence" (1930)
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