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The Fools Who Write Articles About Me Think That One Morning I Suddenly Decided To Write And Began To Produce Masterpieces. There Is No Special Trick About Writing, Or Painting Either. I Wrote Constantly For 15 Years Before I Produced Anything With Any Solidity To It.

-Sherwood Anderson

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The Fools Who Write

Sherwood Anderson

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The Fools Who Write Articles About Me Think That One Morning I Suddenly Decided To Write And Began To Produce Masterpieces. There Is No Special Trick About Writing, Or Painting Either. I Wrote Constantly For 15 Years Before I Produced Anything With Any Solidity To It.

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All Of The People Of My Time Were Bound With Chains. They Had Forgotten The Long Fields And The Standing Corn. They Had Forgotten The West Winds.

Draw Things That Have Some Meaning To You. An Apple, What Does It Mean? The Object Drawn Doesn't Matter So Much. It's What You Feel About It, What It Means To You. A Masterpiece Could Be Made Of A Dish Of Turnips.

The Fools Who Write Articles About Me Think That One Morning I Suddenly Decided To Write And Began To Produce Masterpieces. There Is No Special Trick About Writing, Or Painting Either. I Wrote Constantly For 15 Years Before I Produced Anything With Any Solidity To It.

Interest In The Lives Of Others, The High Evaluation Of These Lives, What Are They But The Overflow Of The Interest A Man Finds In Himself, The Value He Attributes To His Own Being?.

Her Thoughts Ran Away To Her Girlhood With Its Passionate Longing For Adventure And She Remembered The Arms Of Men That Had Held Her When Adventure Was A Possible Thing For Her. Particularly She Remembered One Who Had For A Time Been Her Lover And Who In The Moment Of His Passion Had Cried Out To Her More Than A Hundred Times, Saying The Same Words Madly Over And Over: "you Dear! You Dear! You Lovely Dear!" The Words, She Thought, Expressed Something She Would Have Liked To Have Achieved In Life.

Above All Avoid Taking The Advice Of Men Who Have No Brains And Do Not Know What They Are Talking About.

You Won’t Arrive. It Is An Endless Search.

From Being Quite Sure Of Himself And His Future He Becomes Not At All Sure. If He Be An Imaginative Boy A Door Is Torn Open And For The First Time He Looks Out Upon The World, Seeing, As Though They Marched In Procession Before Him, The Countless Figures Of Men Who Before His Time Have Come Out Of Nothingness Into The World, Lived Their Lives And Again Disappeared Into Nothingness. The Sadness Of Sophistication Has Come To The Boy.

I Had A World, And It Slipped Away From Me. The War Blew Up More Than The Bodies Of Men....it Blew Ideas Away.

I Am Pregnant With Song. My Body Aches But Do Not Betray Me. I Will Sing Songs And Hide Them Away. I Will Tear Them Into Bits And Throw Them In The Street. The Streets Of My City Are Full Of Dark Holes. I Will Hide My Songs In The Holes Of The Streets.

If I Can Write Everything Out Plainly, Perhaps I Will Myself Understand Better What Has Happened.

What's Wrong With This Egotism? If A Man Doesn't Delight In Himself And The Force In Him And Feel That He And It Are Wonders, How Is All Life To Become Important To Him?

It Has Long Been My Desire To Be A Little Worm In The Fair Apple Of Progress.

I Am Constantly Amazed At How Little Painters Know About Painting, Writers About Writing, Merchants About Business, Manufacturers About Manufacturing. Most Men Just Drift.

You Must Not Become A Mere Peddler Of Words. The Thing To Learn Is To Know What People Are Thinking About, Not What They Say.

Father Was Made For Romance. For Him There Was No Such Thing As A Fact.

Friends You Have, People You Love, Die And Are Born Again.

Draw, Draw, Hundreds Of Drawings. Try To Remain Humble. Smartness Kills Everything.

It Might Be That Women Who Have Beennurses Should Not Marry Physicians. They Have Too Much Respect For Physicians, Are Taughtto Have Too Much Respect

The Thing Of Course, Is To Make Yourself Alive. Most People Remain All Of Their Lives In A Stupor.

It May Be Life Is Only Worthwhile At Moments. Perhaps That Is All We Ought To Expect.

People Keep On Getting Married. Evidently Hope Is Eternal In The Human Breast.

Work Accomplished Means Little. It Is In The Past. What We All Want Is The Glorious And Living Present.

When A Job Is To Be Done There's No Use Putting It Off.

It Was A Cold Day But The Sun Was Out And The Trees Were Like Great Bonfires Against Gray Distant Fields And Hills.

The Whole Object Of Education Is...to Develop The Mind. The Mind Should Be A Thing That Works.

From The Place By The Railing At The Edge Of The Tracks On The Summer Evening I Return Across The City To My Own Room. I Am Vividly Aware Of My Own Life That Escaped The Winter On The Boat. How Many Such Lives I Have Lived. Then I Only Made A Dollar And A Half A Day And Now I Sometimes Make More Than That In A Few Minutes. How Wonderful To Be Able To Write Words. ... Again I Begin The Endless Game Of Reconstructing My Own Life, Jerking It Out Of The Shell That Dies, Striving To Breathe Into It Beauty And Meaning. ... I Wonder Why My Life, Why All Lives, Are Not More Beautiful.

It Is No Use. I Find It Impossible To Work With Security Staring Me In The Face.

Would It Not Be Better To Have It Understood That Realism, In So Far As The Word Means Reality To Life, Is Always Bad Art -- Although It May Possibly Be Very Good Journalism?

It Is All Right You're Saying You Do Not Need Other People, But There Are A Lot Of People Who Need You.

He Thought About Himself And To The Young That Always Brings Sadness.

I'll Do Something, Get Into Some Kind Of Work Where Talk Don't Count. Maybe I'll Just Be A Mechanic In A Shop. I Don't Know. I Guess I Don't Care Much. I Just Want To Work And Keep Quiet. That's All I've Got In Mind.

Above All Avoid Taking The Advice Of Men Who Have No Brains And Do Not Know What They Are Talking About.

Many People Must Live And Die Alone, Even In Winesburg.

I Wanted To Run Away From Everything But I Wanted To Run Towards Something Too.

I Am A Little Thing, A Tiny Little Thing On The Vast Prairies. I Know Nothing. My Mouth Is Dirty. I Cannot Tell What I Want. My Feet Are Sunk In The Black Swampy Land, But I Am A Lover. I Love Life. In The End Love Shall Save Me.

My Father, A Ruined Dandy From The South, Had Been Reduced To Keeping A Small Harness-repair Shop And, When That Failed, He Became Ostensibly A House-and-barn Painter. However, He Did Not Call Himself A House-painter. The Idea Was Not Flashy Enough For Him. He Called Himself A "sign-writer.

Everyone In The World Is Christ And They Are All Crucified.

It Has Long Been My Desire To Be A Little Worm In The Fair Apple Of Progress.

As Time Passed And He Grew To Know People Better, He Began To Think Of Himself As An Extraordinary Man, One Set Apart From His Fellows. He Wanted Terribly To Make His Life A Thing Of Great Importance, And As He Looked About At His Fellow Men And Saw How Like Clods They Lived It Seemed To Him That He Could Not Bear To Become Also Such A Clod.

Many People Must Live And Die Alone, Even In Winesburg.

Don't Be Carried Off Your Feet By Anything Because It Is Modern - The Latest Thing. Go To The Louvre Often And Spend A Good Deal Of Time Before The Rembrandts, The Delacroixs.

There Is Within Every Human Being A Deep Well Of Thinking Over Which A Heavy Iron Lid Is Kept Clamped.

There Is Within Every Human Being A Deep Well Of Thinking Over Which A Heavy Iron Lid Is Kept Clamped.

The Eighteen Years He Has Lived Seem But A Moment, A Breathing Space In The Long March Of Humanity. Already He Hears Death Calling. With All His Heart He Wants To Come Close To Some Other Human, Touch Someone With His Hands, Be Touched By The Hand Of Another.

Breathing Space

There Is A Kind Of Shrewdness Many Men Have That Enables Them To Get Money. It Is The Shrewdness Of The Fox After The Chicken. A Low Order Of Mentality Often Goes With It.

Wait And Wait. Most People's Lives Are Spent Waiting.

There Is This Thing Called Life. We Live It, Not As We Intend Or Wish, But As We Are Driven On By Forces Outside And Inside Ourselves.

I Go About Looking At Horses And Cattle. They Eat Grass, Make Love, Work When They Have To, Bear Their Young. I Am Sick With Envy Of Them.

It Is No Use. I Find It Impossible To Work With Security Staring Me In The Face.

The Lives Of People Are Like Young Trees In A Forest. They Are Being Choked By Climbing Vines. The Vines Are Old Thoughts And Beliefs Planted By Dead Men.

People Who Have Few Possessions Cling Tightly To Those They Have. That Is One Of The Facts That Make Life So Discouraging.

The Disease We All Have And That We Have To Fight Against All Our Lives Is ... The Disease Of Self.

Dare To Be Strong And Courageous. That Is The Road. Venture Anything.

You Must Not Become A Mere Peddler Of Words. The Thing To Learn Is To Know What People Are Thinking About, Not What They Say.

If You Are To Become A Writer You'll Have To Stop Fooling With Words.

The Fools Who Write Articles About Me Think That One Morning I Suddenly Decided To Write And Began To Produce Masterpieces. There Is No Special Trick About Writing, Or Painting Either. I Wrote Constantly For 15 Years Before I Produced Anything With Any Solidity To It.

There Is A Time In The Life Of Every Boy When He For The First Time Takes The Backward View Of Life. Perhaps That Is The Moment When He Crosses The Line Into Manhood.

The Fruition Of The Year Had Come And The Night Should Have Been Fine With A Moon In The Sky And The Crisp Sharp Promise Of Frost In The Air, But It Wasn't That Way. It Rained And Little Puddles Of Water Shone Under The Street Lamps On Main Street. In The Woods In The Darkness Beyond The Fair Ground Water Dripped From The Black Trees.

The Eighteen Years He Has Lived Seem But A Moment, A Breathing Space In The Long March Of Humanity. Already He Hears Death Calling. With All His Heart He Wants To Come Close To Some Other Human, Touch Someone With His Hands, Be Touched By The Hand Of Another.

Breathing Space

There Is A Kind Of Shrewdness Many Men Have That Enables Them To Get Money. It Is The Shrewdness Of The Fox After The Chicken. A Low Order Of Mentality Often Goes With It.

I Had A World, And It Slipped Away From Me. The War Blew Up More Than The Bodies Of Men....it Blew Ideas Away.

It Is Apparent That Nations Cannot Exist For Us. They Are The Playthings Of Children, Such Toys As Children Break From Boredom And Weariness. The Branch Of A Tree Is My Country. My Freedom Sleeps In A Mulberry Bush. My Country Is In The Shivering Legs Of A Little Lost Dog.

I Think That Those Of Us Who Are What Are Called Intellectuals Make A Terrible Mistake In Overvaluing The Yen We Have For The Arts, Books, Etc. There Is A Sweet, Fine Quality In Life That Has Nothing To Do With This, And More And More I Find Myself Valuing Myself With Those People.

The Father Spent His Time Talking And Thinking Of Religion. He Proclaimed Himself An Agnostic And Was So Absorbed In Destroying The Ideas Of God That Had Crept Into The Minds Of His Neighbors That He Never Saw God Manifesting Himself In The Little Child That, Half Forgotten, Lived Here And There On The Bounty Of Her Dead Mother's Relatives.

I Am A Lover And Have Not Found My Thing To Love.

The Fruition Of The Year Had Come And The Night Should Have Been Fine With A Moon In The Sky And The Crisp Sharp Promise Of Frost In The Air, But It Wasn't That Way. It Rained And Little Puddles Of Water Shone Under The Street Lamps On Main Street. In The Woods In The Darkness Beyond The Fair Ground Water Dripped From The Black Trees.

Nothing Gives Quite The Satisfaction That Doing Things Brings.

The Writing Of Words Can Lead To All Sorts Of Absurdities.

People Keep On Getting Married. Evidently Hope Is Eternal In The Human Breast.

From The Place By The Railing At The Edge Of The Tracks On The Summer Evening I Return Across The City To My Own Room. I Am Vividly Aware Of My Own Life That Escaped The Winter On The Boat. How Many Such Lives I Have Lived. Then I Only Made A Dollar And A Half A Day And Now I Sometimes Make More Than That In A Few Minutes. How Wonderful To Be Able To Write Words. ... Again I Begin The Endless Game Of Reconstructing My Own Life, Jerking It Out Of The Shell That Dies, Striving To Breathe Into It Beauty And Meaning. ... I Wonder Why My Life, Why All Lives, Are Not More Beautiful.

You Must Try To Forget All You Have Learned,” Said The Old Man. “you Must Begin To Dream. From This Time On You Must Shut Your Ears To The Roaring Of The Voices.

I Feel That I Am Writing Out Of A Full Life. I Am A Rich Man, Rich In Men Known, In Adventures Had. I Am Rich With Living.

All Good New Orleanians Go To Look At The Mississippi At Least Once A Day. At Night It Is Like Creeping Into A Dark Bedroom To Look At A Sleeping Child--something Of That Sort--gives You The Same Warm Nice Feeling, I Mean.

Interest In The Lives Of Others, The High Evaluation Of These Lives, What Are They But The Overflow Of The Interest A Man Finds In Himself, The Value He Attributes To His Own Being?.

Dare To Be Strong And Courageous. That Is The Road. Venture Anything.

In Youth There Are Always Two Forces Fighting In People. The Warm Unthinking Little Animal Struggles Against The Thing That Reflects And Remembers

From Being Quite Sure Of Himself And His Future He Becomes Not At All Sure. If He Be An Imaginative Boy A Door Is Torn Open And For The First Time He Looks Out Upon The World, Seeing, As Though They Marched In Procession Before Him, The Countless Figures Of Men Who Before His Time Have Come Out Of Nothingness Into The World, Lived Their Lives And Again Disappeared Into Nothingness. The Sadness Of Sophistication Has Come To The Boy.

I Have Seldom Written A Story, Long Or Short, That I Did Not Have To Write And Rewrite. There Are Single Stories Of Mine That Have Taken Me Ten Or Twelve Years To Get Written.

I Think The Whole Glory Of Writing Lies In The Fact That It Forces Us Out Of Ourselves And Into The Lives Of Others.

In Middle America Men Are Awakening. Like Awkward And Untrained Boys We Begin To Turn Toward Maturity And With Our Awakening We Hunger For Song. But In Our Towns And Fields There Are Few Memory Haunted Places. Here We Stand In Roaring City Streets, On Steaming Coal Heaps, In The Shadow Of Factories From Which Come Only The Grinding Roar Of Machines. We Do Not Sing But Mutter In The Darkness. Our Lips Are Cracked With Dust And With The Heat Of Furnaces. We But Mutter And Feel Our Way Toward The Promise Of Song.

The Machines Men Are So Intent On Making Have Carried Them Very Far From The Old Sweet Things.

I'll Do Something, Get Into Some Kind Of Work Where Talk Don't Count. Maybe I'll Just Be A Mechanic In A Shop. I Don't Know. I Guess I Don't Care Much. I Just Want To Work And Keep Quiet. That's All I've Got In Mind.

What Is To Be Got At To Make The Air Sweet, The Ground Good Under The Feet, Can Only Be Got At By Failure, Trial, Again And Again And Again Failure.

It May Be True Of All Relationships, Not Only Between Fathers And Sons, But Between Men And Women. Nothing Seems Fixed. Everything Is Always Changing. We Seem To Have Very Little Control Over Our Emotional Life.

In Youth There Are Always Two Forces Fighting In People. The Warm Unthinking Little Animal Struggles Against The Thing That Reflects And Remembers

It Is All Right You're Saying You Do Not Need Other People, But There Are A Lot Of People Who Need You.

On The Trees Are Only A Few Gnarled Apples That The Pickers Have Rejected. They Look Like The Knuckles Of Doctor Reefy's Hands. One Nibbles At Them And They Are Delicious. Into A Little Round Place At The Side Of The Apple Has Been Gathered All Its Sweetness. One Runs From Tree To Tree Over The Frosted Ground Picking The Gnarled, Twisted Apples And Filling His Pockets With Them. Only The Few Know The Sweetness Of The Twisted Apples.

...she Thought That Something Unexpressed In Herself Came Forth And Became A Part Of An Unexpressed Something In Them.

It Is Apparent That Nations Cannot Exist For Us. They Are The Playthings Of Children, Such Toys As Children Break From Boredom And Weariness. The Branch Of A Tree Is My Country. My Freedom Sleeps In A Mulberry Bush. My Country Is In The Shivering Legs Of A Little Lost Dog.

Realism, In So Far As The Word Means Reality To Life, Is Always Bad Art.

I Know About Her, Although She Has Never Crossed My Path," He Said Softly. "i Know About Her Struggles And Her Defeats. It Is Because Of Her Defeats That She Is To Me The Lovely One. Out Of Her Defeats She Has Been Born A New Quality In Woman. I Have A Name For It. I Call It Tandy. I Made Up The Name When I Was A True Dreamer And Before My Body Became Vile. It Is The Quality Of Being Strong To Be Loved. It Is Something Men Need From Women And That They Do Not Get.

Those Who Are To Follow The Arts Should Have A Training In What Is Called Poverty. Given A Comfortable Middle-class Start In Life, The Artist Is Almost Sure To End Up By Becoming A Bellyacher, Constantly Complaining Because The Public Does Not Rush Forward At Once To Proclaim Him.

Work Accomplished Means Little. It Is In The Past. What We All Want Is The Glorious And Living Present.

I Think You Know That When An American Stays Away From New York Too Long Something Happens To Him. Perhaps He Becomes A Little Provincial, A Little Dead And Afraid.

In That High Place In The Darkness The Two Oddly Sensitive Human Atoms Held Each Other Tightly And Waited. In The Mind Of Each Was The Same Thought. "i Have Come To This Lonely Place And Here Is This Other," Was The Substance Of The Thing Felt.

If People Did Not Want Their Stories Told, It Would Be Better For Them To Keep Away From Me.

Next To Occupation Is The Building Up Of Good Taste. That Is Difficult, Slow Work. Few Achieve It. It Means All The Difference In The World In The End.

There Is A Note That Comes Into The Human Voice By Which You May Know Real Weariness. It Comes When One Has Been Trying With All His Heart And Soul To Think His Way Along Some Difficult Road Of Thought. Of A Sudden He Finds Himself Unable To Go On. Something Within Him Stops. A Tiny Explosion Takes Place. He Bursts Into Words And Talks, Perhaps Foolishly. Little Side Currents Of His Nature He Didn't Know Were There Run Out And Get Themselves Expressed. It Is At Such Times That A Man Boasts, Uses Big Words, Makes A Fool Of Himself In General.

In The Beginning When The World Was Young There Were A Great Many Thoughts But No Such Thing As Truth. Man Made The Truths Himself And Each Truth Was A Composite Of A Great Many Vague Thoughts. All About In The World Were Truths And They Were All Beautiful.

My Father, A Ruined Dandy From The South, Had Been Reduced To Keeping A Small Harness-repair Shop And, When That Failed, He Became Ostensibly A House-and-barn Painter. However, He Did Not Call Himself A House-painter. The Idea Was Not Flashy Enough For Him. He Called Himself A "sign-writer.

There Is A Note That Comes Into The Human Voice By Which You May Know Real Weariness. It Comes When One Has Been Trying With All His Heart And Soul To Think His Way Along Some Difficult Road Of Thought. Of A Sudden He Finds Himself Unable To Go On. Something Within Him Stops. A Tiny Explosion Takes Place. He Bursts Into Words And Talks, Perhaps Foolishly. Little Side Currents Of His Nature He Didn't Know Were There Run Out And Get Themselves Expressed. It Is At Such Times That A Man Boasts, Uses Big Words, Makes A Fool Of Himself In General.

The Life Of Reality Is Confused, Disorderly, Almost Always Without Apparent Purpose, Whereas In The Artist's Imaginative Life There Is Purpose. There Is Determination To Give The Tale, The Song, The Painting, Form -- To Make It True And Real To The Theme, Not To Life.

In The Beginning When The World Was Young There Were A Great Many Thoughts But No Such Thing As Truth. Man Made The Truths Himself And Each Truth Was A Composite Of A Great Many Vague Thoughts. All About In The World Were Truths And They Were All Beautiful.

I Am Constantly Amazed At How Little Painters Know About Painting, Writers About Writing, Merchants About Business, Manufacturers About Manufacturing. Most Men Just Drift.

Draw, Draw, Hundreds Of Drawings. Try To Remain Humble. Smartness Kills Everything.

Friends You Have, People You Love, Die And Are Born Again.

It May Be Life Is Only Worthwhile At Moments. Perhaps That Is All We Ought To Expect.

I Am A Lover And Have Not Found My Thing To Love. That Is A Big Point If You Know Enough To Realize What I Mean. It Makes My Destruction Inevitable, You See. There Are Few Who Understand That.

What Is To Be Got At To Make The Air Sweet, The Ground Good Under The Feet, Can Only Be Got At By Failure, Trial, Again And Again And Again Failure.

Father Was Made For Romance. For Him There Was No Such Thing As A Fact.

Learn To Draw. Try To Make Your Hand So Unconsciously Adept That It Will Put Down What You Feel Without Your Having To Think Of Your Hands. Then You Can Think Of The Thing Before You.

A Man Needs A Purpose For Real Health.

When A Job Is To Be Done There's No Use Putting It Off.

Only The Few Know The Sweetness Of The Twisted Apples.

If People Did Not Want Their Stories Told, It Would Be Better For Them To Keep Away From Me.

I Have Seldom Written A Story, Long Or Short, That I Did Not Have To Write And Rewrite. There Are Single Stories Of Mine That Have Taken Me Ten Or Twelve Years To Get Written.

When A Man Publishes A Book, There Are So Many Stupid Things Said That He Declares He'll Never Do It Again. The Praise Is Almost Always Worse Than The Criticism.

All Of The People Of My Time Were Bound With Chains. They Had Forgotten The Long Fields And The Standing Corn. They Had Forgotten The West Winds.

The Writer, An Old Man With A White Moustache, Had Some Difficulty Getting Into Bed.

...she Thought That Something Unexpressed In Herself Came Forth And Became A Part Of An Unexpressed Something In Them.

You Must Try To Forget All You Have Learned,” Said The Old Man. “you Must Begin To Dream. From This Time On You Must Shut Your Ears To The Roaring Of The Voices.

Whereas God, For Reasons Of His Own, Sometimes Chooses To Let The Machine Answer. 'the Supreme Being Is Unavailable To Come To The Phone At This Time, But He Wants You To Know What Your Call Is Important To Him. In The Meantime, For Sins Of Pride, Press One. For Avarice, Press Two.

I Wanted To Run Away From Everything But I Wanted To Run Towards Something Too.

It Was A Cold Day But The Sun Was Out And The Trees Were Like Great Bonfires Against Gray Distant Fields And Hills.

Those Who Are To Follow The Arts Should Have A Training In What Is Called Poverty. Given A Comfortable Middle-class Start In Life, The Artist Is Almost Sure To End Up By Becoming A Bellyacher, Constantly Complaining Because The Public Does Not Rush Forward At Once To Proclaim Him.

I Think The Whole Glory Of Writing Lies In The Fact That It Forces Us Out Of Ourselves And Into The Lives Of Others.

You Can Make It All Right If You Will Only Be Satisfied To Remain Small," I Told Myself. I Had To Keep Saying It Over And Over To Myself. "be Little. Don't Try To Be Big. Work Under The Guns. Be A Little Worm In The Fair Apple Of Life.

If I Can Write Everything Out Plainly, Perhaps I Will Myself Understand Better What Has Happened.

What's Wrong With This Egotism? If A Man Doesn't Delight In Himself And The Force In Him And Feel That He And It Are Wonders, How Is All Life To Become Important To Him?

Next To Occupation Is The Building Up Of Good Taste. That Is Difficult, Slow Work. Few Achieve It. It Means All The Difference In The World In The End.

The Moment One Of The People Took One Of The Truths To Himself, Called It Histruth, And Tried To Live His Life By It, He Became A Grotesque And The Truth He Embraced A Falsehood.

A Man Needs A Purpose For Real Health.

If Our Family Was Poor, Of What Did Our Poverty Consist? If Our Clothes Were Torn The Torn Places Only Let In The Sun And Wind. In The Winter We Had No Overcoats, But That Only Meant We Ran Rather Than Loitered.

I Feel That I Am Writing Out Of A Full Life. I Am A Rich Man, Rich In Men Known, In Adventures Had. I Am Rich With Living.

All Good New Orleanians Go To Look At The Mississippi At Least Once A Day. At Night It Is Like Creeping Into A Dark Bedroom To Look At A Sleeping Child--something Of That Sort--gives You The Same Warm Nice Feeling, I Mean.

The Machines Men Are So Intent On Making Have Carried Them Very Far From The Old Sweet Things.

The Writing Of Words Can Lead To All Sorts Of Absurdities.

The Object Of Art Is Not To Make Salable Pictures. It Is To Save Yourself.

On The Trees Are Only A Few Gnarled Apples That The Pickers Have Rejected. They Look Like The Knuckles Of Doctor Reefy's Hands. One Nibbles At Them And They Are Delicious. Into A Little Round Place At The Side Of The Apple Has Been Gathered All Its Sweetness. One Runs From Tree To Tree Over The Frosted Ground Picking The Gnarled, Twisted Apples And Filling His Pockets With Them. Only The Few Know The Sweetness Of The Twisted Apples.

Only The Few Know The Sweetness Of The Twisted Apples.

Sometimes I Think We Americans Are The Loneliest People In The World. To Be Sure, We Hunger For The Power Of Affection, The Self-acceptance That Gives Life. It Is The Oldest And Strongest Hunger In The World. But Hungering Is Not Enough.

There Is This Thing Called Life. We Live It, Not As We Intend Or Wish, But As We Are Driven On By Forces Outside And Inside Ourselves.

I Go About Looking At Horses And Cattle. They Eat Grass, Make Love, Work When They Have To, Bear Their Young. I Am Sick With Envy Of Them.

Learn To Draw. Try To Make Your Hand So Unconsciously Adept That It Will Put Down What You Feel Without Your Having To Think Of Your Hands. Then You Can Think Of The Thing Before You.

The Moment One Of The People Took One Of The Truths To Himself, Called It Histruth, And Tried To Live His Life By It, He Became A Grotesque And The Truth He Embraced A Falsehood.

If Our Family Was Poor, Of What Did Our Poverty Consist? If Our Clothes Were Torn The Torn Places Only Let In The Sun And Wind. In The Winter We Had No Overcoats, But That Only Meant We Ran Rather Than Loitered.

As Time Passed And He Grew To Know People Better, He Began To Think Of Himself As An Extraordinary Man, One Set Apart From His Fellows. He Wanted Terribly To Make His Life A Thing Of Great Importance, And As He Looked About At His Fellow Men And Saw How Like Clods They Lived It Seemed To Him That He Could Not Bear To Become Also Such A Clod.

Nothing Gives Quite The Satisfaction That Doing Things Brings.

I Am A Little Thing, A Tiny Little Thing On The Vast Prairies. I Know Nothing. My Mouth Is Dirty. I Cannot Tell What I Want. My Feet Are Sunk In The Black Swampy Land, But I Am A Lover. I Love Life. In The End Love Shall Save Me.

You Won’t Arrive. It Is An Endless Search.

You Can Make A Killing As A Playwright In America, But You Can't Make A Living.

If You Are To Become A Writer You'll Have To Stop Fooling With Words.

In That High Place In The Darkness The Two Oddly Sensitive Human Atoms Held Each Other Tightly And Waited. In The Mind Of Each Was The Same Thought. "i Have Come To This Lonely Place And Here Is This Other," Was The Substance Of The Thing Felt.

You Can Make It All Right If You Will Only Be Satisfied To Remain Small," I Told Myself. I Had To Keep Saying It Over And Over To Myself. "be Little. Don't Try To Be Big. Work Under The Guns. Be A Little Worm In The Fair Apple Of Life.

I Am A Lover And Have Not Found My Thing To Love. That Is A Big Point If You Know Enough To Realize What I Mean. It Makes My Destruction Inevitable, You See. There Are Few Who Understand That.

I Know About Her, Although She Has Never Crossed My Path," He Said Softly. "i Know About Her Struggles And Her Defeats. It Is Because Of Her Defeats That She Is To Me The Lovely One. Out Of Her Defeats She Has Been Born A New Quality In Woman. I Have A Name For It. I Call It Tandy. I Made Up The Name When I Was A True Dreamer And Before My Body Became Vile. It Is The Quality Of Being Strong To Be Loved. It Is Something Men Need From Women And That They Do Not Get.

Wait And Wait. Most People's Lives Are Spent Waiting.

Everyone In The World Is Christ And They Are All Crucified.

In Middle America Men Are Awakening. Like Awkward And Untrained Boys We Begin To Turn Toward Maturity And With Our Awakening We Hunger For Song. But In Our Towns And Fields There Are Few Memory Haunted Places. Here We Stand In Roaring City Streets, On Steaming Coal Heaps, In The Shadow Of Factories From Which Come Only The Grinding Roar Of Machines. We Do Not Sing But Mutter In The Darkness. Our Lips Are Cracked With Dust And With The Heat Of Furnaces. We But Mutter And Feel Our Way Toward The Promise Of Song.

It Might Be That Women Who Have Beennurses Should Not Marry Physicians. They Have Too Much Respect For Physicians, Are Taughtto Have Too Much Respect

The Life Of Reality Is Confused, Disorderly, Almost Always Without Apparent Purpose, Whereas In The Artist's Imaginative Life There Is Purpose. There Is Determination To Give The Tale, The Song, The Painting, Form -- To Make It True And Real To The Theme, Not To Life.

I Think That Those Of Us Who Are What Are Called Intellectuals Make A Terrible Mistake In Overvaluing The Yen We Have For The Arts, Books, Etc. There Is A Sweet, Fine Quality In Life That Has Nothing To Do With This, And More And More I Find Myself Valuing Myself With Those People.

The Disease We All Have And That We Have To Fight Against All Our Lives Is ... The Disease Of Self.

Most People Are Afraid To Trust Their Imaginations And The Artist Is Not.

I Am A Lover And Have Not Found My Thing To Love.

I Am Pregnant With Song. My Body Aches But Do Not Betray Me. I Will Sing Songs And Hide Them Away. I Will Tear Them Into Bits And Throw Them In The Street. The Streets Of My City Are Full Of Dark Holes. I Will Hide My Songs In The Holes Of The Streets.

Don't Be Carried Off Your Feet By Anything Because It Is Modern - The Latest Thing. Go To The Louvre Often And Spend A Good Deal Of Time Before The Rembrandts, The Delacroixs.

The Lives Of People Are Like Young Trees In A Forest. They Are Being Choked By Climbing Vines. The Vines Are Old Thoughts And Beliefs Planted By Dead Men.

The Whole Object Of Education Is...to Develop The Mind. The Mind Should Be A Thing That Works.

When A Man Publishes A Book, There Are So Many Stupid Things Said That He Declares He'll Never Do It Again. The Praise Is Almost Always Worse Than The Criticism.

Love Is Like A Wind Stirring The Grass Beneath Trees On A Black Night,' He Had Said. 'you Must Not Try To Make Love Definite. It Is The Divine Accident Of Life. If You Try To Be Definite And Sure About It And To Live Beneath The Trees, Where Soft Night Winds Blow, The Long Hot Day Of Disappointment Comes Swiftly And The Gritty Dust From Passing Wagons Gathers Upon Lips Inflamed And Made Tender By Kisses.

People Who Have Few Possessions Cling Tightly To Those They Have. That Is One Of The Facts That Make Life So Discouraging.

Whereas God, For Reasons Of His Own, Sometimes Chooses To Let The Machine Answer. 'the Supreme Being Is Unavailable To Come To The Phone At This Time, But He Wants You To Know What Your Call Is Important To Him. In The Meantime, For Sins Of Pride, Press One. For Avarice, Press Two.

He Thought About Himself And To The Young That Always Brings Sadness.

The Object Of Art Is Not To Make Salable Pictures. It Is To Save Yourself.

You Can Make A Killing As A Playwright In America, But You Can't Make A Living.

Realism, In So Far As The Word Means Reality To Life, Is Always Bad Art.

Would It Not Be Better To Have It Understood That Realism, In So Far As The Word Means Reality To Life, Is Always Bad Art -- Although It May Possibly Be Very Good Journalism?

Draw Things That Have Some Meaning To You. An Apple, What Does It Mean? The Object Drawn Doesn't Matter So Much. It's What You Feel About It, What It Means To You. A Masterpiece Could Be Made Of A Dish Of Turnips.

Everyone Knows Of The Talking Artists. Throughout All Of The Known History Of The World They Have Gathered In Rooms And Talked. They Talk Of Art And Are Passionately,almost Feverishly, In Earnest About It. They Think It Matters Much More Than It Does.

Dare To Be Strong And Courageous. That Is The Road. Venture Anything. Be Brave Enough To Dare To Be Loved. Be Something More Than Man Or Woman. Be Tandy.

There Is A Time In The Life Of Every Boy When He For The First Time Takes The Backward View Of Life. Perhaps That Is The Moment When He Crosses The Line Into Manhood.

Dare To Be Strong And Courageous. That Is The Road. Venture Anything. Be Brave Enough To Dare To Be Loved. Be Something More Than Man Or Woman. Be Tandy.

Most People Are Afraid To Trust Their Imaginations And The Artist Is Not.

The Father Spent His Time Talking And Thinking Of Religion. He Proclaimed Himself An Agnostic And Was So Absorbed In Destroying The Ideas Of God That Had Crept Into The Minds Of His Neighbors That He Never Saw God Manifesting Himself In The Little Child That, Half Forgotten, Lived Here And There On The Bounty Of Her Dead Mother's Relatives.

The Writer, An Old Man With A White Moustache, Had Some Difficulty Getting Into Bed.

I Think You Know That When An American Stays Away From New York Too Long Something Happens To Him. Perhaps He Becomes A Little Provincial, A Little Dead And Afraid.

Sometimes I Think We Americans Are The Loneliest People In The World. To Be Sure, We Hunger For The Power Of Affection, The Self-acceptance That Gives Life. It Is The Oldest And Strongest Hunger In The World. But Hungering Is Not Enough.

Love Is Like A Wind Stirring The Grass Beneath Trees On A Black Night,' He Had Said. 'you Must Not Try To Make Love Definite. It Is The Divine Accident Of Life. If You Try To Be Definite And Sure About It And To Live Beneath The Trees, Where Soft Night Winds Blow, The Long Hot Day Of Disappointment Comes Swiftly And The Gritty Dust From Passing Wagons Gathers Upon Lips Inflamed And Made Tender By Kisses.

The Thing Of Course, Is To Make Yourself Alive. Most People Remain All Of Their Lives In A Stupor.

Everyone Knows Of The Talking Artists. Throughout All Of The Known History Of The World They Have Gathered In Rooms And Talked. They Talk Of Art And Are Passionately,almost Feverishly, In Earnest About It. They Think It Matters Much More Than It Does.

Her Thoughts Ran Away To Her Girlhood With Its Passionate Longing For Adventure And She Remembered The Arms Of Men That Had Held Her When Adventure Was A Possible Thing For Her. Particularly She Remembered One Who Had For A Time Been Her Lover And Who In The Moment Of His Passion Had Cried Out To Her More Than A Hundred Times, Saying The Same Words Madly Over And Over: "you Dear! You Dear! You Lovely Dear!" The Words, She Thought, Expressed Something She Would Have Liked To Have Achieved In Life.

It May Be True Of All Relationships, Not Only Between Fathers And Sons, But Between Men And Women. Nothing Seems Fixed. Everything Is Always Changing. We Seem To Have Very Little Control Over Our Emotional Life.

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Witold Gombrowicz

Megalyn Echikunwoke

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