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If The Art Of Poetry Is?the Art Of Making Sense Of The Chaos Of Human Experience, It's Not A Bad Thing To See A Lot Of Chaos.

-Archibald MacLeish

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If The Art Of

Archibald MacLeish

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If The Art Of Poetry Is?the Art Of Making Sense Of The Chaos Of Human Experience, It's Not A Bad Thing To See A Lot Of Chaos.

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Human Experience

More From Archibald MacLeish

Poets... Are Literal-minded Men Who Will Squeeze A Word Till It Hurts.

A Self-advertising Writer Is Always A Self-extinguished Writer.

Poetry Is The Art Of Understanding What It Is To Be Alive.

Man Can Live His Truth, His Deepest Truth, But Cannot Speak It.

The Business Of The Law Is To Make Sense Of The Confusion Of What We Call Human Life - To Reduce It To Order But At The Same Time To Give It Possibility, Scope, Even Dignity.

The Task Of Man Is Not To Discover New Worlds, But To Discover His Own World In Terms Of Human Comprehension And Beauty.

How Shall Freedom Be Defended? By Arms When It Is Attacked By Arms, By Truth When It Is Attacked By Lies, By Faith When It Is Attacked By Authoritarian Dogma. Always, In The Final Act, By Determination And Faith.

Our Reliance In This Country Is On The Inquiring, Individual Human Mind. Our Strength Is Founded There; Our Resilience, Our Ability To Face An Ever-changing Future And To Master It. We Are Not Frozen Into The Backward-facing Impotence Of Those Societies, Fixed In The Rigidness Of An Official Dogma, To Which The Future Is The Mirror Of The Past. We Are Free To Make The Future For Ourselves.

As Things Are Now Going The Peace We Make, What Peace We Seem To Be Making, Will Be A Peace Of Oil, A Peace Of Gold, A Peace Of Shipping, A Peace In Brief.without Moral Purpose Or Human Interest.

What You Really Have To Know Is One: Yourself. And The Only Way You Can Know That One Is In The Mirror Of The Others. And The Only Way You Can See Into The Mirror Of The Others Is By Love Or Its Opposite—by Profound Emotion. Certainly Not By Curiosity—by Dancing Around Asking, Looking, Making Notes. You Have To Live Relationships To Know.

America Is Promises To Take! America Is Promises To Us To Take Them.

To Separate Journalism And Poetry, Therefore-history And Poetry-to Set Them Up At Opposite Ends Of The World Of Discourse, Is To Separate Seeing From The Feel Of Seeing, Emotion From The Acting Of Emotion, Knowledge From The Realization Of Knowledge.

Races Didn't Bother The Americans. They Were Something A Lot Better Than Any Race. They Were A People. They Were The First Self-constituted, Self-declared, Self-created People In The History Of The World.

Autumn Is The American Season. In Europe The Leaves Turn Yellow Or Brown, And Fall. Here They Take Fire On The Trees And Hang There Flaming. We Think This Frost-fire Is A Portent Somehow: A Promise That The Continent Has Given Us. Life, Too, We Think, Is Capable Of Taking Fire In This Country; Of Creating Beauty Never Seen.

There Is Only One Thing More Painful Than Learning From Experience And That Is Not Learning From Experience.

What Once Was Cuddled Must Learn To Kiss The Cold Wonn's Mouth. That's All The Mystery.

The Map Of America Is A Map Of Endlessness, Of Opening Out, Of Forever And Ever. No Man's Face Would Make You Think Of It But His Hope Might, His Courage Might.

What Is Wrong Is Not The Great Discoveries Of Science—information Is Always Better Than Ignorance, No Matter What Information Or What Ignorance. What Is Wrong Is The Belief Behind The Information, The Belief That Information Will Change The World. It Won’t.

Man Depends On God For All Things: God Depends On Man For One. Without Man's Love God Does Not Exist As God, Only As Creator, And Love Is The One Thing No One, Not Even God Himself, Can Command. It Is A Free Gift Or It Is Nothing. And It Is Most Itself, Most Free, When It Is Offered In Spite Of Suffering, Of Injustice, And Of Death . . . The Justification Of The Injustice Of The Universe Is Not Our Blind Acceptance Of God's Inexplicable Will, Nor Our Trust In God's Love, His Dark And Incomprehensible Love, For Us, But Our Human Love, Notwithstanding Anything, For Him.

If You Commit Yourself To The Art Of Poetry, You Commit Yourself To The Task Of Learning How To See, Using Words As Elements Of Sight And Their Sounds As Prisms. And To See Means To See Something Worth All The Agony Of Learning How To See.

A World Ends When Its Metaphor Has Died.

Journalism Is Concerned With Events, Poetry With Feelings. Journalism Is Concerned With The Look Of The World, Poetry With The Feel Of The World.

They Also Live Who Swerve And Vanish In The River.

A Real Writer Learns From Earlier Writers The Way A Boy Learns From An Apple Orchard -- By Stealing What He Has A Taste For, And Can Carry Off

It Is Not In The World Of Ideas That Life Is Lived. Life Is Lived For Better Or Worse In Life, And To A Man In Life, His Life Can Be No More Absurd Than It Can Be The Opposite Of Absurd, Whatever That Opposite May Be.

Writers . . . Write To Give Reality To Experience.

Young Poets Are Advised By Their Elders To Avoid The Practice Of Journalism As They Would Wet Socks And Gin Before Breakfast.

The Infantile Cowardice Of Our Time Which Demands An External Pattern, A Nonhuman Authority.

Wildness And Silence Disappeared From The Countryside, Sweetness Fell From The Air, Not Because Anyone Wished Them To Vanish Or Fall But Because Throughways Had To Floor The Meadows With Cement To Carry The Automobiles Which Advancing Technology Produced. Tropical Beaches Turned Into High-priced Slums Where Thousand-room Hotels Elbowed Each Other For Glimpses Of Once-famous Surf Not Because Those Who Loved The Beaches Wanted Them There But Because Enormous Jets Could Bring A Million Tourists Every Year - And Therefore Did.

Democracy Is Never A Thing Done. Democracy Is Always Something That A Nation Must Be Doing. What Is Necessary Now Is One Thing And One Thing Only, That Democracy Become Again Democracy In Action, Not Democracy Accomplished And Piled Up In Goods And Gold.

Love Becomes The Ultimate Answer To The Ultimate Human Question.

Journalism Wishes To Tell What It Is That Has Happened Everywhere As Though The Same Things Had Happened For Every Man. Poetry Wishes To Say What It Is Like For Any Man To Be Himself In The Presence Of A Particular Occurrence As Though Only He Were Alone There.

Conventional Wisdom Notwithstanding, There Is No Reason Either In Football Or In Poetry Why The Two Should Not Meet In A Man's Life If He Has The Weight And Cares About The Words.

If The Poem Can Be Improved By The Author's Explanations, It Never Should Have Been Published.

What Is More Important In A Library Than Anything Else-than Everything Else-is The Fact That It Exists.

Thought Provoking

Democracy Is Never A Thing Done. Democracy Is Always Something That A Nation Must Be Doing.

That Peculiar Disease Of Intellectuals, That Infatuation With Ideas At The Expense Of Experience, That Compels Experience To Conform To Bookish Expectations.

What Happened At Hiroshima Was Not Only That A Scientific Breakthrough Had Occurred And That A Great Part Of The Population Of A City Had Been Burned To Death, But That The Problem Of The Relation Of The Triumphs Of Modern Science To The Human Purposes Of Man Had Been Explicitly Defined.

Freedom Is The Right To Choose: The Right To Create For Oneself The Alternatives Of Choice. Without The Possibility Of Choice And The Exercise Of Choice A Man Is Not A Man But A Member, An Instrument, A Thing.

Poetry Which Owes No Man Anything, Owes Nevertheless One Debt - An Image Of The World In Which Men Can Again Believe.

The One Man Who Should Never Attempt An Explanation Of A Poem Is Its Author. If The Poem Can Be Improved By It's Author's Explanations It Never Should Have Been Published, And If The Poem Cannot Be Improved By Its Author's Explanations The Explanations Are Scarcely Worth Reading.

Never In All Their History Have Men Been Able Truly To Conceive Of The World As One: A Single Sphere, A Globe, Having The Qualities Of A Globe, A Round Earth In Which All The Directions Eventually Meet, In Which There Is No Center Because Every Point, Or None, Is Center - An Equal Earth Which All Men Occupy As Equals. The Airman's Earth, If Free Men Make It, Will Be Truly Round: A Globe In Practice, Not In Theory.

You Burned The City Of London In Our Houses And We Felt The Flames.

Beauty Is That Medusa's Head Which Men Go Armed To Seek And Sever, And Dead Will Starve And Sting Forever.

See The World As It Truly Is, Small And Blue, Beautiful In That Eternal Silence Where It Floats.

A Poem Should Not Mean But Be.

Without Guilt / What Is A Man? An Animal, Isn't He? / A Wolf Forgiven At His Meat, / A Beetle Innocent In His Copulation.

Keepers Of Books, Keepers Of Print And Paper On The Shelves, Librarians Are Keepers Also Of The Records Of The Human Spiritthe Records Of Men's Watch Upon The World And On Themselves.

A Poem Should Be Wordless As The Flight Of Birds.

. . . What Humanity Most Desperately Needs Is Not The Creation Of New Worlds But The Recreation In Terms Of Human Comprehension Of The World We Have -- And It Is For This Reason That Arts Go On For Generation To Generation In Spite Of The Fact That Phidias Has Already Carved And Homer Has Already Sung. The Creation, We Are Informed, Was Accomplished In Seven Days With Sunday Off, But The Recreation Will Never Be Accomplished Because It Is Always Accomplished Anew For Each Generation Of Living Men.

We Have No Choice But To Be Guilty. God Is Unthinkable If We Are Innocent.

Children Know The Grace Of God Better Than Most Of Us. They See The World The Way The Morning Brings It Back To Them; New And Born And Fresh And Wonderful.

The American Journey Has Not Ended. America Is Always Still To Build ... West Is A Country In The Mind, And So Eternal.

Spring Has Many American Faces. There Are Cities Where It Will Come And Go In A Day And Counties Where It Hangs Around And Never Quite Gets There. Summer Is Drawn Blinds In Louisiana, Long Winds In Wyoming, Shade Of Elms And Maples In New England.

The Roots Of The Grass Strain, Tighten, The Earth Is Rigid, Waits-he Is Waiting- And Suddenly, And All At Once, The Rain!

There Is No Dusk To Be, There Is No Dawn That Was, Only There's Now, And Now, And The Wind In The Grass.

The Dissenter Is Every Human Being At Those Moments Of His Life When He Resigns Momentarily From The Herd And Thinks For Himself.

We Are As Great As Our Belief In Human Liberty - No Greater. And Our Belief In Human Liberty Is Only Ours When It Is Larger Than Ourselves.

There Are Those, I Know, Who Will Say That The Liberation Of Humanity, The Freedom Of Man And Mind, Is Nothing But A Dream. They Are Right. It Is The American Dream.

The Only Thing About A Man That Is A Man . . . Is His Mind. Everything Else You Can Find In A Pig Or A Horse.

We Have Learned The Answers, All The Answers: It Is The Question That We Do Not Know.

Questions And Answers

To See The Earth As We Now See It, Small And Beautiful In That Eternal Silence Where It Floats, Is To See Ourselves As Riders On The Earth Together, Brothers On That Bright Loveliness In The Unending Night ~ Brothers Who See Now They Are Truly Brothers.

A Poem Should Be Palpable And Mute As A Globed Fruit.

A Man Who Lives, Not By What He Loves But What He Hates, Is A Sick Man.

If The Art Of Poetry Is?the Art Of Making Sense Of The Chaos Of Human Experience, It's Not A Bad Thing To See A Lot Of Chaos.

Human Experience

If God Is God He Is Not Good, If God Is Good He Is Not God; Take The Even, Take The Odd.

Positive Atheism

Around, Around The Sun We Go: The Moon Goes Round The Earth. We Do Not Die Of Death: We Die Of Vertigo.

Freedom Is The Right To One's Dignity As A Man.

Personal Dignity

The Perversion Of The Mind Is Only Possible When Those Who Should Be Heard In Its Defence Are Silent.

Once You Permit Those Who Are Convinced Of Their Own Superior Rightness To Censor And Silence And Suppress Those Who Hold Contrary Opinions, Just At That Moment The Citadel Has Been Surrendered.

History, Like A Badly Constructed Concert Hall, Has Occasional Dead Spots Where The Music Can't Be Heard.

Piety's Hard Enough To Take Among The Poor Who Have To Practice It. A Rich Man's Piety Stinks. It's Insufferable.

The American Mood, Perhaps Even The American Character, Has Changed. There Are Few Manifestations Any Longer Of The Old American Self-assurance Which So Irritated Dickens. Instead, There Is A Sense Of Frustration So Perceptible That Even Our Politicians Have Attempted To Exploit It.

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