Adventures in the Arts: Informal Chapters on Painters, Vaudeville and Poets

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Boni and Liveright, 1921 - 254 páginas
 

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Página 205 - If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?
Página 213 - THE LONELY DEATH In the cold I will rise, I will bathe In waters of ice; myself Will shiver and shrive myself, Alone in the dawn, and anoint Forehead and feet and hands...
Página 205 - We learned to like the fire By playing glaciers when a boy, And tinder guessed by power Of opposite to balance odd, If white, a red must be! Paralysis, our primer dumb Unto vitality.
Página 13 - ... endeavors that we should be most reasonably proud. He is the one man who has shown us the significance of the poetic aspects of our original land. Without him we should still be unrepresented in the cultural development of the world. The wide discrepancies between our earliest history and our present make it an imperative issue for everyone loving the name America to cherish him while he remains among us as the only esthetic representative of our great country up to the present hour.
Página 199 - Could you believe me — without? I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the Wren, and my Hair is bold, like the Chestnut Bur — and my eyes, like the Sherry in the Glass, that the Guest leaves — Would this do just as well?
Página 200 - Saint and imp sported in her, toying with the tricks of the Deity, taking them now with extreme profundity, then tossing them about like irresistible toys with an incomparable triviality. She has traced upon the page with celestial indelibility that fine line from her soul, which is like a fine prismatic light separating one bright sphere from another, one planet from another planet; and the edge of separation is but faintly perceptible.
Página 205 - My flowers are near and foreign, and I have but to cross the floor to stand in the Spice Isles. The wind blows gay to-day and the jays bark like blue terriers. I tell you what I see— the landscape of the spirit requires a lung, but no tongue. I hold you few I love, till my heart is red as February and purple as March.
Página 207 - THE WARNING Just now, Out of the strange Still dusk ... as strange, as still . . . A white moth flew. Why am I grown So cold?
Página 239 - Temeraire" was received with a general feeling of sympathy. No abusive voice, as far as I remember, was ever raised against it. And the feeling was just, for of all pictures of subjects not visibly involving human pain, this is, I believe, the most pathetic that was ever painted. The utmost pensiveness which can ordinarily be given to a landscape depends on adjuncts of ruin : but no ruin was ever so affecting as this gliding of the vessel to her grave.
Página 15 - ... through the incomparable pageantry of the buffalo, the eagle, the snowbird, and other varying types of small dances, the mastery of the redman in the art of gesture, the art of symbolized pantomimic expression. It is the buffalo, the eagle, and the deer dances that show you their essential greatness as artists. You find a species of rhythm so perfected in its relation to racial interpretation, as hardly to admit of witnessing ever again the copied varieties of dancing such as we whites of the...

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