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Wishin' Was Dyin' But I Gotta Make It All This Way To That Bed On These Feet.

-John Berryman

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Wishin' Was Dyin' But

John Berryman

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Wishin' Was Dyin' But I Gotta Make It All This Way To That Bed On These Feet.

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We Have Reason To Be Afraid. This Is A Terrible Place.

So If I Were Talking To A Young Writer, I Would Recommend The Cultivation Of Extreme Indifference To Both Praise And Blame Because Praise Will Lead You To Vanity, And Blame Will Lead You To Self-pity, And Both Are Bad For Writers.

I Am So Wise I Had My Mouth Sewn Shut.

This World Is Gradually Becoming A Place Where I Do Not Care To Be Any More.

I Didn't Want To Be Like Yeats; I Wanted To Be Yeats.

Ever To Confess You're Bored Means You Have No Inner Resources.

Bats Have No Bankers And They Do Not Drink And Cannot Be Arrested And Pay No Tax And, In General, Bats Have It Made.

Wishin' Was Dyin' But I Gotta Make It All This Way To That Bed On These Feet.

The Artist Is Extremely Lucky Who Is Presented With The Worst Possible Ordeal Which Will Not Actually Kill Him. At That Point, He's In Business.

You Should Always Be Trying To Write A Poem You Are Unable To Write, A Poem You Lack The Technique, The Language, The Courage To Achieve. Otherwise You're Merely Imitating Yourself, Going Nowhere, Because That's Always Easiest.

Two Daiquiris Withdrew Into A Corner Of A Gorgeous Room And One Told The Other A Lie.

Offering Dragons Quarter Is No Good, They Regrow All Their Parts And Come On Again. They Have To Be Killed.

There Is No Such Thing As Freedom (though It Is The Most Important Condition Of Human Life, After Humility, -which Does Not Exist Either). There Is Only Slavery (walls Around One) And Absence-of-slavery (ability To Walk In Any Direction, Or To Remain Still).

Something Has Been Said For Sobriety But Very Little.

Life, Friends, Is Boring. We Must Not Say So. After All, The Sky Flashes, The Great Sea Yearns, We Ourselves Flash And Yearn

We Are Using Our Own Skins For Wallpaper And We Cannot Win.

I Conclude Now I Have No Inner Resources, Because I Am Heavy Bored. Peoples Bore Me, Literature Bores Me, Especially Great Literature.

Life, Friends, Is Boring. We Must Not Say So.

I Can Offer You Only: This World Like A Knife

Literature Bores Me, Especially Great Literature

Great Literature

That Is Our ‘pointed Task. Love & Die.

Praise Will Lead You To Vanity, And Blame Will Lead You To Self-pity, And Both Are Bad For Writers.

I Think That What Happens In My Poetic Work In The Future Will Depend On My Being Knocked In The Face, And Thrown Flat, And Given Cancer, And All Kinds Of Other Things Short Of Senile Dementia.

These Songs Are Not Meant To Be Understood, You Understand. They Are Only Meant To Terrify & Comfort.

Life, Friends, Is Boring. We Must Not Say So. After All, The Sky Flashes, The Great Sea Yearns, We Ourselves Flash And Yearn, And Moreover My Mother Told Me As A Boy (repeatedly) 'ever To Confess You're Bored Means You Have No Inner Resources.' I Conclude Now I Have No Inner Resources, Because I Am Heavy Bored.

We Must Travel In The Direction Of Our Fear.

I Do Strongly Feel That Among The Greatest Pieces Of Luck For High Achievement Is Ordeal. Certain Great Artists Can Make Out Without It, Titian And Others, But Mostly You Need Ordeal. My Idea Is This: The Artist Is Extremely Lucky Who Is Presented With The Worst Possible Ordeal Which Will Not Actually Kill Him. At That Point, He's In Business: Beethoven's Deafness, Goya's Deafness, Milton's Blindness, That Kind Of Thing.

I Cry. Evil Dissolves, & Love, Like Foam; That Love. Prattle Of Children Powers Me Home, My Heart Claps Like The Swan's Under A Frenzy Of Who Love Me & Who Shine.

Them Lady Poets Must Not Marry, Pal.

One Must Be Ruthless With One's Own Writing Or Someone Else Will Be.

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