Quotes About Poetry

Yo no quiero comodidad. Yo quiero a Dios, quiero poesía, quiero peligro real, quiero libertad, quiero bondad, quiero pecado. —En suma —dijo Mustafá Mond—, usted reclama el derecho a ser desgraciado.

But I don't want comfort; I want god, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.

Pero yo no quiero la comodidad. Yo quiero a Dios, quiero la poesía, quero el verdadero riesgo, quiero la libertad, quiero la bondad. Quiero el pecado. -En resumen, (...), usted reclama el derecho a ser desgraciado.

Ma io non ne voglio di comodità. Io voglio Dio, voglio la poesia, voglio il pericolo reale, voglio la libertà, voglio la bontà. Voglio il peccato.[...]Ebbene,sì. Io reclamo il diritto d'essere infelice.

But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin. — Aldous Huxley Brave New World (Harper Perennial Modern Classics 1998) Originally published 1932.

Ja nie chcÄ™ wygody. Ja chcÄ™ Boga, poezji, prawdziwego niebezpieczeÅ"stwa, wolnoÅ›ci, cnoty. ChcÄ™ grzechu. - Inaczej mówiÄ…c - stwierdziÅ' Mustafa Mond - domaga siÄ™ pan prawa do bycia nieszcz??liwym. - No wiÄ™c dobrze - rzekÅ' Dzikus wyzywajÄ…cym tonem - domagam siÄ™ prawa do bycia nieszcz??liwym.

I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin."

Amma mÉ™n rahatl?q istÉ™mirÉ™m. MÉ™n Tanr? istÉ™yirÉ™m, poeziya istÉ™yirÉ™m, hÉ™qiqÉ™t istÉ™yirÉ™m, azadl?q istÉ™yirÉ™m, yax??l?q istÉ™yirÉ™m. MÉ™n günah istÉ™yirÉ™m.

Her cheeks were bright with a soft vermilion of the pomegranate mingling with the whiteness of the lily.

Nobody reads poetry anymore So who the hell are you I see bent over this book?

nobody dared in those days to question such bullies, and the freedom that is more normal these days has come too late for these victims. Auden would have helped, because the whole message of his life and his poetry is the antithesis of cruelty and meanness of spirit.

It's really rather easy to write eighth-century Chinese poetry, said Angus Lordie. In English, of course. It requires little effort, I find.

Love is nothing out of the ordinary, even if we think it is; even if we idealise it, celebrate it in poetry, sentimentalise it in coy valentines. Love happens to just about everyone; it is like measles or the diseases of childhood; it is as predictable as the losing of milk teeth, or the breaking of a boy's voice.

La poésie: cette sauce dont on recouvrait la réalité pour lui donner meilleur goût.

Innocency: what a wonderful word, and different, in some indefinable way, from innocence. The difference, she thought, lay in the poetry.

Computers change the way we deal with words," Dr. Macgregor continued. "They somehow unlock language in the mind. But they do so in a very particular way – they induce Ã¢â'¬Â¦ well, I suppose we should call it logorrhoea, a sort of verbal diarrhoea. The words come tumbling out and people feel they can go on and on. And they do. Poetry has to be much more disciplined, much more concise.

all those things that sound so right were often just poetry, really—the gravy we put on reality to make it taste a bit better.

Drawing is to art as grammar is to language: you can speak without any knowledge of grammar, but do not expect to be understood, and certainly do not expect to become a poet.

Any extreme political creed brought only darkness in the long run; it lit up nothing. The best politics were those of caution, tolerance and moderation, Angus maintained, but such politics were, alas, also very dull, and certainly moved nobody to poetry.

I rode to meet you: dreams like living beings swarmed around me and the moon on my right side followed me, burning. I rode back: everything changed. My soul in love was sad and the moon on my left side trailed me without hope. To such endless impressions we poets give ourselves absolutely, making, in silence, omen of mere event, until the world reflects the deepest needs of the soul.

Objet de poésies mutines, Vase d'amour bien émouvant Toi qui m'a enivré souvent

Apaixonou-se por arvoredos, Pela solidão das terras nuas, Por noites de estrelas, pela lua.

I love their feet—although you'll find That all of Russia scarcely numbers Three pairs of shapely feet ... And yet, How long it took me to forget Two special feet. (18)

Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind, a mind not of the women but of the poet; she did not please, she intoxicated.