Weather is a literary specialty, and no untrained hand can turn out a good article on it
Mark TwainRead
Well, my book is written-let it go. But if it were only to write over again there wouldn't be so many things left out. They burn in me; and they keep multiplying; but now they can't ever be said. And besides, they would require a library-and a pen warmed up in hell.
Interpretation
The quote reflects on the limitations of writing and the unexpressed thoughts that remain within a person.
Mark Twain expresses a deep sense of frustration about the unexpressed ideas and emotions that reside within him, suggesting that while his book is complete, there are countless thoughts left unsaid. He implies that the act of writing is inherently limiting, as it can only capture a fraction of one's inner world, and it humorously hints at the intensity of emotion required to truly convey what he feels.
In practice
In a writing workshop, to emphasize the importance of capturing all emotions.
Weather is a literary specialty, and no untrained hand can turn out a good article on it
The easy part of being an artist is figuring out the message that everyone else is ready to hear. The hard part is waiting for the proper lull to make the announcement.
You can't reason with your heart; it has its own laws, and thumps about things which the intellect scorns.
To be good is noble; but to show others how to be good is nobler and no trouble.
Name the greatest of all inventors. Accident.
In Paris they just simply opened their eyes and stared when we spoke to them in French! We never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language.
Death laid its eggs in the wound
He that can live alone resembles the brute beast in nothing, the sage in much, and God in everything.
I am simultaneously and contradictorily both happy and unhappy: 'to succeed' or 'to fail' have for me only ephemeral, contingent meanings (this does not stop my desires and sorrows from being violent ones); what impels me, secretly and obstinately, is not tactical: I accept and I affirm, irrespective of the true and the false, of success and failure; I am withdrawn from all finality, I live according to chance.
I hated labels anyway. People didn't fit in slots--prostitute, housewife, saint--like sorting the mail. We were so mutable, fluid with fear and desire, ideals and angles, changeable as water.
What is this true meditation? It is to make everything: coughing, swallowing, waving the arms, motion, stillness, words, action, the evil and the good, prosperity and shame, gain and loss, right and wrong, into one single koan.
Let soul speak with the silent articulation of a face.
Subscribe for the occasional hand-picked quote. No noise.