![]() One should never commit oneself until one is amazed at one's luck.” -Iris Murdoch You can't stop it.” -William Carlos Williams “Writing is very hard work and knowing what you're doing the whole time.” -Shelby Foote.Writing is not only useless, it's spoiled paper.” -Padget Powell “Writing is 90 percent procrastination: reading magazines, eating cereal out of the box, watching infomercials.” -Paul Rudnick.“A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” -Thomas Mann.“Let's face it, writing is hell.” -William Styron.You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” -E.L. “Writing is like driving at night in the fog.“Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.” -E.L.“In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.” -Denise Levertov.“Good writing is always about things that are important to you, things that are scary to you, things that eat you up.” -John Edgar Wideman.“All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.” -F.“Writing is a performance, like singing an aria or dancing a jig” -Stephen Greenblatt.Writing is my way of making other chances.” -Anne Tyler I've never quite believed that one chance is all I get. Nothing the writer can do is ever enough” -Joy Williams “Writers end up writing stories-or rather, stories' shadows-and they're grateful if they can, but it is not enough.Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.īe well, do good work, and keep in touch. To me the meanest flower that blows can give ![]() Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, Thanks to the human heart by which we live, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality Īnother race hath been, and other palms are won. The Clouds that gather round the setting sun The innocent brightness of a new-born Day I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,Įven more than when I tripped lightly as they In years that bring the philosophic mind. Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower What though the radiance which was once so bright Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: Where is it now, the glory and the dream? The fulness of your bliss, I feelI feel it all.įresh flowers while the sun shines warm,Īnd the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:īoth of them speak of something that is gone: The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call To me alone there came a thought of grief. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, That there hath past away a glory from the earth. Look round her when the heavens are bare, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. There was a time when meadow, grove and stream, Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood Poem: selections from "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood," by William Wordsworth. Ode: Intimations of Immortality (excerpt)
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