Quotes About Expression

Because he loves only as man, not as human being, there is in his sexual feelings something narrow, seemingly wild, malicious, temporal, finite, which weakens his art and makes it equivocal and dubious.

Confessez-vous à vous-même: mourriez-vous s'il vous était défendu d'écrire ?

Art means to be oblivious to the fact that the world already exists and to create one.

Allen diesen Meinungen von Kunst, derjenigen Tolstojs mit eingeschlossen, ist aber Eines gemeinsam: es wird nicht so sehr das Wesen der Kunst betrachtet, vielmehr sind alle bemüht, sie aus ihren Wirkungen zu erklären.

Und der Künstler ist immer noch dieser: ein Tänzer, dessen Bewegung sich bricht an dem Zwang seiner Zelle. Was in seinen Schritten und dem beschrankten Schwung seiner Arme nicht Raum hat, kommt in der Ermattung von seinen Lippen, oder er muß die noch ungelebten Linien seines Leibes mit wunden Fingern in die Wände ritzen.

Works of art are infinitely solitary and nothing is less likely to reach them than criticism. Only love can grasp them and hold them and do them justice.

Go into yourself. Examine the reason that bids you to write; check whether it reaches its roots into the deepest region of your heart, admit to yourself whether you would die if it should be denied you to write. This above all: ask yourself in your night's quietest hour: must I write?

If, when you wake up in the morning, you can think of nothing but writing… then you are a writer.

Maybe we're here only to say: house, bridge, well, gate, jug, olive tree, window — at most, pillar, tower … but to say them, remember, oh, to say them in a way that the things themselves never dreamed of existing so intensely.

Maledizione antica dei poeti che invece di parlare si lamentano, che sempre giudicano il loro sentimento invece di formarlo; e si ostinano a pensare che quanto in loro è lieto o triste, spetti a loro deplorare o celebrare nella poesia.

The artist's experience lies so unbelievably close to the sexual, to its pain and its pleasure, that the two phenomena are really just different forms of one and the same longing and bliss.

If, when you wake up in the morning, you can think of nothing but writing then you are a writer" Se alla mattina quando ti alzi non pensi altro che allo scrivere allora sei uno scrittore

turn towards nature, and try, like a First Man, to say what you see and experience and love and lose.

Your inmost happening is worth your whole love, that is what you must somehow work at, and not lose too much time and too much courage in explaining

Here I feel that there is no one anywhere who can answer for you those questions and feelings which, in their depths, have a life of their own; for even the most articulate people are unable to help, since what words point to is so very delicate, is almost unsayable.

Because he loves only as a male, and not as a human being

And so I repress myself, and swallow the call-note of depth-dark sobbing.

Everything that has been wrestled from doubt I welcome-the mouths that burst open after long knowledge of what it is to be mute.

Bir dünya girer benim görüÅŸ alan?ma, belki ay gibi insan bar?nmayan bir yer; onlar tek duyguyu haline b?rakmaz ama, orta mal?d?r kulland?klar? bütün sözler.

Yazmak için acele etmemek gerekir, mana ve tat toplamal?, bütün ve mümkünse uzun bir hayat boyunca ve sonra en sonunda belki iyi olan ve on sat?r yaz?labilir. Çünkü dizeler, birçoklar?n?n dediÄŸi gibi, deÄŸildir (bunlara insan yeterÅŸnce erken yaÅŸta sahiptir), dizeler deneyimlerdir.

There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.

Works of art are of an infinite loneliness and with nothing to be so little reached as with criticism. Only love can grasp and hold and fairly judge them.

He had been so dear to me that for my entire childhood the mere thought that one day he could no longer exist brought all of nature, both outside and inside of me, to a standstill.—But actually, under the influence of ever deeper initiation, nature eventually became more expressive, touching and moving to me with every loss that I suffered as if it brought me ever closer to its heart.

most events are unutterable, consummating themselves in a sphere where word has never trod, and more unutterable than them all are works of art, whose life endures by the side of our own that passes away.