Zitate von Ezra Loomis Pound
Ein bekanntes Zitat von Ezra Loomis Pound:
Seine wahre Penelope war Flaubert.
Informationen über Ezra Loomis Pound
Dichter (USA, 1885 - 1972).
Ezra Loomis Pound · Geburtsdatum · Sterbedatum
Ezra Loomis Pound wäre heute 138 Jahre, 5 Monate, 28 Tage oder 50.583 Tage alt.
Geboren am 30.10.1885 in Hailey/Idaho
Gestorben am 01.11.1972 in Venedig
Sternzeichen: ♏ Skorpion
Unbekannt
Weitere 70 Zitate von Ezra Loomis Pound
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He hath not heart for harping, nor in ring-having Nor winsomeness to wife, nor world's delight Nor any whit else save the wave's slash, Yet longing comes upon him to fare forth on the water. Bosque takes blossom, cometh beauty of berries, Fields to fairness, land fares brisker, All this admonisheth man eager of mood, The heart turns to travel so that he then thinks On flood-ways to be far departing. Cuckoo calleth with gloomy crying, He singeth summerward, bodeth sorrow, The bitter heart's blood.
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His true Penelope was Flaubert, He fished by obstinate isles; Observed the elegance of Circe's hair Rather than the mottoes on sundials.
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hysterias, trench confessions, laughter out of dead bellies.
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I had over-prepared the event, that much was ominous. With middle-ageing care I had laid out just the right books. I had almost turned down the pages.
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In the gloom, the gold gathers the light against it.
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Literature is news that stays news.
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O woe, woe, People are born and die, We also shall be dead pretty soon Therefore let us act as if we were dead already.
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Objectivity and again objectivity, and expression: no hindside-beforeness, no straddled adjectives (as 'addled mosses dank'), no Tennysonianness of speech; nothing - nothing that you couldn't, in some circumstance, in the stress of some emotion, actually say.
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Poetry must be as well written as prose.
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Pull down thy vanity Thou art a beaten dog beneath the hail, A swollen magpie in a fitful sun, Half black half white Nor knowst'ou wing from tail Pull down thy vanity, Paquin, pull down! The green casque has outdone your elegance.
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Real education must ultimately be limited to one who insists on knowing, the rest is mere sheep-herding.
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Some quick to arm, some for adventure, some from fear of weakness, some from fear of censure, some for love of slaughter, in imagination, learning later . . . some in fear, learning love of slaughter; Died some, pro patria, non 'dulce' non 'et decor' . . . walked eye-deep in hell believing in old men's lies, the unbelieving came home, home to a lie.
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Tching prayed on the mountain and wrote make it new on his bath tub. Day by day make it new cut underbrush, pile the logs keep it growing.
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The age demanded an image Of its accelerated grimace, Something for the modern stage, Not, at any rate, an Attic grace; Not, not certainly, the obscure reveries Of the inward gaze; Better mendacities Than the classics in paraphrase!
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The ant's a centaur in his dragon world. Pull down thy vanity, it is not man Made courage, or made order, or made grace, Pull down thy vanity, I say pull down. Learn of the green world what can be thy place In scaled invention or true artistry, Pull down thy vanity, Paquin pull down! The green casque has outdone your elegance.
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The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough.
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The author's conviction on this day of New Year is that music begins to atrophy when it departs too far from the dance; that poetry begins to atrophy when it gets too far from music.
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The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind. The paired butterflies are already yellow with August Over the grass in the West garden; They hurt me. I grow older. If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang, Please let me know beforehand, And I will come out to meet you As far as Cho-fu-sa.
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The tip's a good one, as for literature It gives no man a sinecure. And no one knows, at sight, a masterpiece. And give up verse, my boy, There's nothing in it.
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There died a myriad, And of the best, among them, For an old bitch gone in the teeth, For a botched civilization, Charm, smiling at the good mouth, Quick eyes gone under earth's lid, For two gross of broken statues, For a few thousand battered books.
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