Poetry is a fireplace in summer or a fan in winter.
Robert HassRead
It's hell writing and it's hell not writing. The only tolerable state is having just written.
Interpretation
Writing is a struggle, yet not writing brings its own pain; the only relief comes from having completed the task.
Robert Hass illustrates the inherent difficulties and emotional turmoil associated with the act of writing. He suggests that both the struggle to create and the discomfort of not creating are equally taxing, and the only moment of peace comes after the work is done, highlighting the paradox of the creative process.
In practice
A writer sharing their struggles at a literary event.
Poetry is a fireplace in summer or a fan in winter.
Sometimes from this hillside just after sunset The rim of the sky takes on a tinge Of the palest green, like the flesh of a cucumber When you peel it carefully.
Take the time to write. You can do your life's work in half an hour a day.
I think that the job of poetry, its political job, is to refresh the idea of justice, which is going dead in us all the time.
There are moments when the body is as numinous as words, days that are the good flesh continuing. Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings, saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.
When I was younger, I was so crazy about poetry that I didn't notice who was noticing. It seemed to me so tremendous and large.
With Bound, we wanted to pull at conventions, because you begin to wonder, Why do these stereotypes exist? Where do they come from? You use that as the subtext.
There's nothing more important in making movies than the screenplay.
If poetry does not come as naturally as leaves to a tree,_x000D_ _x000D_ then it better not come at all.
A photograph is neither taken or seized by force. It offers itself up. It is the photo that takes you. One must not take photos.
I find that the only way to make my characters really interesting to children is to exaggerate all their good or bad qualities, and so if a person is nasty or bad or cruel, you make them very nasty, very bad, very cruel. If they are ugly, you make them extremely ugly. That, I think, is fun and makes an impact.
Dill was off again. Beautiful things floated around in his dreamy head. He could read two books to my one, but he preferred the magic of his own inventions. He could add and subtract faster than lightning, but he preferred his own twilight world, a world where babies slept, waiting to be gathered like morning lilies.
Subscribe for the occasional hand-picked quote. No noise.