When critics are waiting to pounce upon poetic style on exactly the same grounds as if it were prose, the poets tremble.
Now between the meanings of words and their sounds there is ordinarily no discoverable relation except one of accident; and it is therefore miraculou… - John Crowe Ransom
Now between the meanings of words and their sounds there is ordinarily no discoverable relation except one of accident; and it is therefore miraculou…
- John Crowe Ransom
But we moderns are impatient and destructive. - John Crowe Ransom
But we moderns are impatient and destructive.
In all the good Greek of Plato I lack my roastbeef and potato. A better man was Aristotle, Pulling steady on the bottle. - John Crowe Ransom
In all the good Greek of Plato I lack my roastbeef and potato. A better man was Aristotle, Pulling steady on the bottle.
For no art and no religion is possible until we make allowances, until we manage to keep quiet the enfant terrible of logic that plays havoc with the… - John Crowe Ransom
For no art and no religion is possible until we make allowances, until we manage to keep quiet the enfant terrible of logic that plays havoc with the…
And how can poetry stand up against its new conditions? Its position is perfectly precarious. - John Crowe Ransom
And how can poetry stand up against its new conditions? Its position is perfectly precarious.
And yet what is Modernism? It is undefined. - John Crowe Ransom
And yet what is Modernism? It is undefined.
God have mercy on the sinner Who must write with no dinner, No gravy and no grub, No pewter and no pub, No bellyand no bowels, Only consonants and vo… - John Crowe Ransom
God have mercy on the sinner Who must write with no dinner, No gravy and no grub, No pewter and no pub, No bellyand no bowels, Only consonants and vo…
I would not knock old fellows in the dust But there lay Captain Carpenter on his back His weapons were the old heart in his bust And a blade shook be… - John Crowe Ransom
I would not knock old fellows in the dust But there lay Captain Carpenter on his back His weapons were the old heart in his bust And a blade shook be…
Too much is demanded by the critic, attempted by the poet. - John Crowe Ransom
Too much is demanded by the critic, attempted by the poet.
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