The work an unknown good man has done is like a vein of water flowing hidden underground, secretly making the ground green.
Thomas CarlyleRead
He who would write heroic poems should make his whole life a heroic poem.
Interpretation
To create great art, one must embody the qualities of that art in their own life.
In this quote, Thomas Carlyle emphasizes the idea that true artistry, especially in the form of heroic poetry, requires the poet to live a life that reflects the same heroic qualities. It suggests that the experiences, values, and actions of the poet must be aligned with the themes of heroism they wish to portray in their work, intertwining the personal with the artistic.
In practice
In a motivational speech about pursuing one's passions.
The work an unknown good man has done is like a vein of water flowing hidden underground, secretly making the ground green.
Thirty millions, mostly fools.
There is a great discovery still to be made in literature, that of paying literary men by the quantity they do not write.
For the superior morality, of which we hear so much, we too would desire to be thankful: at the same time, it were but blindness to deny that this superior morality is properly rather an inferior criminality, produced not by greater love of Virtue, but by greater perfection of Police; and of that far subtler and stronger Police, called Public Opinion.
Enjoying things which are pleasant; that is not the evil; it is the reducing of our moral self to slavery by them that is.
Clean undeniable right, clear undeniable might: either of these once ascertained puts an end to battle. All battle is a confused experiment to ascertain one and both of these.
My fear of life is necessary to me, as is my illness. Without anxiety and illness, I am a ship without a rudder. My art is grounded in reflections over being different from others. My sufferings are part of my self and my art. They are indistinguishable from me, and their destruction would destroy my art. I want to keep those sufferings
A work can have in it a pent-up energy, an intense life of its own, independent of the subject it may represent.
I found a comfort in trying to solve some poetic problems because there were human ones I just couldn't solve.
Give me such shows - give me the streets of Manhattan!
Let the labyrinth of wrinkles be furrowed in my brow with the red-hot iron of my own life, let my hair whiten and my step become vacillating, on condition that I can save the intelligence of my soul - let my unformed childhood soul, as it ages, assume the rational and esthetic forms of an architecture, let me learn just everything that others cannot teach me, what only life would be capable of marking deeply in my skin!
Poetry begins where language starts: in the shadows and accidents of one personβs life.
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