Quotes About Expression

She never had power to conceal her passion, it always set her whole complexion in a blaze.

Non rivelai mai il mio amore verbalmente; però se gli sguardi hanno un linguaggio, anche il più perfetto idiota avrebbe potuto indovinare che ne ero perdutamente innamorato.

Is it that they think it a duty to be continually talking,' pursued she: 'and so never pause to think, but fill up with aimless trifles and vain repetitions when subjects of real interest fail to present themselves, or do they really take a pleasure in such discourse?

yo no puedo hacer lo que hace mi alma

And if I pray, the only prayer That moves my lips for me Is, 'Leave the heart that now I bear, And give me liberty!

I think that one's art is a growth inside one. I do not think one can explain growth. It is silent and subtle. One does not keep digging up a plant to see how it grows.

Who of us knows just why we do what we do, much less another's whys, or what we're after? Art is not like that; cut and dried and hit-at like a bull's eye and done for a reason and explained away by this or that motive. It's climbing and striving for something always beyond.

Professor, you are very hard on that young Canadian girl! Hard? The Professor shrugged, spread his palms. Art - the girl has 'makings.' It takes red-hot fury to dig 'em up. If I'm harsh it's for her own good. More often than not worth while things hurt. Art's worth while.

Why must these people go on, and on, copying, copying fragments of old relics from extinct churches, and old tombs as though those were the best that could ever be, and it would be a sacrilege to beat them? Why didn't they want to out-do the best, instead of copying, always copying what had been done?

She dealt her pretty words like Blades -- How glittering they shone -- And every One unbared a Nerve Or wantoned with a Bone -- She never deemed -- she hurt -- That -- is not Steel's Affair -- A vulgar grimace in the Flesh -- How ill the Creatures bear -- To Ache is human -- not polite -- The Film upon the eye Mortality's old Custom -- Just locking up -- to Die.

I felt it shelter to speak to you.

Till it has loved, no man or woman can become itself.

Art is a house that tries to be haunted.

I like a look of agony, because I know it's true

Oh Susie, I often think that I will try to tell you how very dear you are, and how I'm watching for you, but the words won't come, though the tears will, and I sit down disappointed. Yet, darling, you know it all-- then why do I seek to tell you? I do not know. In thinking of those I love, my reason is all gone from me, and I do fear sometimes that I must make a hospital for the hopelessly insane, and chain myself up there so I won't injure you.

If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.

Susie, what shall I do - there is'nt room enough; not half enough, to hold what I was going to say. Wont you tell the man who makes sheets of paper, that I hav'nt the slightest respect for him!

Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --

Tell the truth, but tell it slant.

I never spoke — unless addressed — And then, 'twas brief and low — I could not bear to live — aloud — The Racket shamed me so — And if it had not been so far — And any one I knew Were going — I had often thought How noteless — I could die —

and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground – because I am afraid –

The spirit looks upon the Dust That fastened it so long With indignation, As a Bird Defrauded of it's Song.

Publication - is the Auction / Of the Mind of Man

How dreary — to be — Somebody! How public — like a Frog — To tell one's name — the livelong June — To an admiring Bog!