Quotes About Expression

The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.

Kifejezéseket és újra csak kifejezéseket kell gyártanom, hogy valami szilárd dolgot iktassak a szobalányok tekintete, az órák tekintete, az arcok tekintete és magam közé, különben sírni fogok.

Ha fontolóra vesszük a dolgot, ki tudja, nem ezt gondolta-e talán: vajon valóban mindent ki tudnak mondani a szavak? Mondanak egyáltalán valamit? Nem rombolják-e le a valóságot, mely egyszer?en meghaladja a teljesítÅ'képességüket?

Szerelem ez, gondolta Lily, ahogy mintha vásznával bíbelÅ'dött volna, párolt és lesz?rt szerelem; szerelem, mely tárgyát megragadni sosem akarná; szerelem, amit matematikusok éreznek képleteik, költÅ'k verssoraik iránt, és mintha az lett volna a célja ennek a szerelemnek, hogy a világon szétoszolva az emberüdv része legyen.

Tudo isso ele considerava, podia-se vê-lo a considerar, grisalho, obstinado, limpo, asseado, enquanto atravessava o parque para dizer à esposa que a amava. Pois ele iria dizer com todas as letras, quando entrasse na sala. Porque é uma pena enorme nunca dizer o que se sente.

Uno de ellos cantaba bajo la ventana del dormitorio; otro posado en la rama mas alta de las lilas; un tercero sobre el reborde del muro. Todos cantaban con una voz estridente, apasionada, vehemente, que parecía que iba a hacerles estallar el corazón, sin cuidarse de la áspera disonancia producida con el canto del pájaro vecino.

Nothing happens here except that I write and write, and curse and burn.

Clothes are but a symbol of something hid deep beneath.

A writer should have the precision of a poet and the imagination of a scientist.

We are most artistically caged.

hot, opalescent, thick tears that poets and lovers shed)...

A work of art has no importance whatever to society. It is only important to the individual.

I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.

Suddenly for no earthly reason I felt immensely sorry for him and longed to say something real, something with wings and a heart, but the birds I wanted settled on my shoulders and head only later when I was alone and not in need of words.

I have no desires, save the desire to express myself in defiance of all the world's muteness.

To begin with, let us take the following motto...Literature is Love. Now we can continue.

do what only a true artist can do ... pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation

The thought, when written down, becomes less oppressive, but some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express is, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.

How small the cosmos (a kangaroo's pouch would hold it), how paltry and puny in comparison to human consciousness, to a single individual recollection, and its expression in words!

Reality is neither the subject nor the object of true art which creates its own special reality having nothing to do with the average reality perceived by the communal eye.

a person hoping to become a poet must have the capacity of thinking of several things at a time.

Thus, in pornographic novels, action has to be limited to the copulation of clichés.

in a sense, all poetry is positional: to try to express one's position in regard to the universe embraced by consciousness, is an immemorial urge. The arms of consciousness reach out and grope, and the longer they are the better. Tentacles, not wings, are Apollo's natural members.

I liked, as I like still, to make words look self-conscious and foolish, to bind them by mock marriage of a pun, to turn them inside out, to come upon them unawares. What is this jest in majesty? This ass in passion? How do god and devil combine to form a live dog?