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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.

-Archibald MacLeish

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To Separate Journalism And

Archibald MacLeish

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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.

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

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.

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

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

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

Positive Atheism

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

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

A Poem Should Not Mean But Be.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

A Poem Should Be Wordless As The Flight Of Birds.

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.

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.

Writers . . . Write To Give Reality To Experience.

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.

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.

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

Love Becomes The Ultimate Answer To The Ultimate Human Question.

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

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

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.

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.

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

Personal Dignity

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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.

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

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

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

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

. . . 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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

Questions And Answers

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.

A World Ends When Its Metaphor Has Died.

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.

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

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 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.

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

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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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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 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

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

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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.

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

Thought Provoking

They Also Live Who Swerve And Vanish In The River.

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