Quotes by E. E. Cummings
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Wikipedia Summary for E. E. Cummings
Edward Estlin Cummings (October 14, 1894 – September 3, 1962), often styled as e e cummings, was an American poet, painter, essayist, author, and playwright. He wrote approximately 2,900 poems, two autobiographical novels, four plays, and several essays. He is often regarded as one of the most important American poets of the 20th century. Cummings is associated with modernist free-form poetry. Much of his work has idiosyncratic syntax and uses lower-case spellings for poetic expression.
To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight, and never stop fighting.
Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experiences that reveals the human spirit.
Yours is the light by which my spirit's born: yours is the darkness of my soul's return --you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.
To be nobody but yourself in a word which is working night and day to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle any human being can fight and never stop fighting.
To be nobody but yourself in a world doing its best to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle any human can ever fight and never stop fighting.
To be nobody but yourself in a world that's doing its best to make you somebody else, is to fight the hardest battle you are ever going to fight. Never stop fighting.
I thank you God for this most amazing day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes.
Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit.
The hardest challenge is to be yourself in a world where everyone is trying to make you be someone else.
Love is a place and through this place of love move (with brightness of peace) all places yes is a world and in this world of yes live (skillfully curled) all worlds.
Damn everything but the circus!...The average 'painter' 'sculptor' 'poet' 'composer' 'playwright' is a person who cannot leap through a hoop from the back of a galloping horse, make people laugh with a clown's mouth, orchestrate twenty lions.
The theory of the free press is not that the truth will be presented completely or perfectly in any one instance, but that the truth will emerge from free discussion.
A poet is someone who is abnormally fond of that precision which creates movement. Which is to say the highest form of concentration possible: fascination; to report on the electrifying experience of being.
When man determined to destroy
himself he picked the was
of shall and finding only why
smashed it into because.
Giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am
though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit, all bequeath.
More each particular person is(my love) alive than every world can understand and now you are and i am now and we're a mystery that will never happen again, a miracle which has never happened before and shining this our now must come to then.
It's no use trying to pretend that most people and ourselves are alike. Most people have less in common with ourselves than the square root of minus one. You and I are human beings; most people are snobs.
The poems to come are for you and for me and are not for most people... you and i are human beings; most people are snobs.
(and from my thighs which shrug and pant a murdering rain leapingly reaches the upward singular deepest flower which she carries in a gesture of her hips).
The first step to expanding your reality is to discard the tendency to exclude things from possibility.
-tomorrow is our permanent address
and there they'll scarcely find us(if they do,
we'll move away still further:into now.
What if a much of a which of a wind
gives the truth to summer's lie;
bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun
and yanks immortal stars awry?
Love is a place
andamp; through this place of
(with brightness of peace)
yes is a world
andamp; in this world of yes live
One day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was.
Things which in my mind blossom will stumble beneath a clumsiest disguise appear capable of fragility and indecision.
-tomorrow is our permanent address and there they'll scarcely find us(if they do, we'll move away still further:into now.
What concerns me fundamentaly is a meteoric burlesk melodrama, born of the immemorial adage love will find a way.
The three saddest things are the ill wanting to be well, the poor wanting to be rich, and the constant traveler saying 'anywhere but here'.
I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyes to dash against darkness.
mother hoped that
i would die etcetera
bravely of course my father used
to become hoarse talking about how it was
a privilege and if only he
If at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.
I shall imagine life is not worth dying,if (and when)roses complain their beauties are in vain but though mankind persuades itself that every weed's a rose,roses(you feel certain)will only smile.
I love you much most beautiful darling more than anyone on the earth and I like you better than everything in the sky.
Humanity i love you because you are perpetually putting the secret of life in your pants and forgetting it's there and sitting down on it and because you are forever making poems in the lap of death Humanity i hate you.
The hardest challenge is to be yourself in a world where everyone is trying to make you be somebody else.
What if a dawn of a doom of a dream bites this universe in two, peels forever out of his grave, and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?
I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses.
Anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain.
Such was a poet and shall be and is -who'll solve the depths of horror to defend a sunbeam's architecture with his life: and carve immortal jungles of despair to hold a mountain's heartbeat in his hand.
Tumbling-hair picker of buttercups violets dandelions And the big bullying daisies through the field wonderful with eyes a little sorry Another comes also picking flowers.
I fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows.
Sweet springtime is my time is your time is our time for springtime is love time and viva sweet love.
And still the mad magnificent herald Spring assembles beauty from forgetfulness with the wild trump of April:witchery of sound and odour drives the wingless thing man forth in the bright air.
The symbol of all art is the Prism. The goal is unrealism. The method is destructive. To break up the white light of objective realism, into the secret glories which it contains.
Meanwhile myself et cetera lay quietly in the deep mud et cetera (dreaming, et cetera, of your smile eyes knees and of your Etcetera.).
Because it's Spring thingS dare to do people (andamp; not the other way round)because it 's A pril Lives lead their own persons(in stead of everybodyelse's)but what's wholly marvellous my Darling is that you and i are more than you and i(be ca us e It's we).
Lessons hide in his wrinkles. Bells ding in the oldness of eyes. Did he by, any chance, tell children that there are such monstrous things as peace and goodwill...a corrupter of youth no doubt.
Your slightest look easily will unclose me, though I have closed myself as fingers, you open petal by petal myself a Spring opens her first rose.
Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are by somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn, a human being.
A man who had fallen among thieves lay by the roadside on his back dressed in fifteenthrate ideas wearing a round jeer for a hat.
O sweet spontaneous earth how often has the naughty thumb of science prodded thy beauty thou answereth them only with spring.
A salesman is an it that stinks to please but whether to please itself or someone else makes no more difference than if it sells hate condoms education snakeoil vac uumcleaners terror strawberries democ ra(caveat emptor)cy superfluous hair.
What's beyond logic happens beneath will;
nor can these moments be translated: i say
that even after April
by God there is no excuse for May.
How should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any lifted from the no of all nothing human merely being doubt unimaginable You?
The mind is its own beautiful prisoner. Mind looked long at the sticky moon opening in dusk her new wings then decently hanged himself,one afternoon. The last thing he saw was you naked amid unnaked things.
Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.
Peering from some high window; at the gold of November sunset
(and feeling that if day has to become night this is a beautiful way).
To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else -- means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.
-Before leaving my room i turn, and (stooping through the morning) kiss this pillow, dear where our heads lived and were.
May my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple and even if its sunday may i be wrong for whenever men are right they are not young.
All by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes.
For surely as each November has its April, mysteries only are significant; and one mystery-of-mysteries creates them all: nothing false and possible is love (who's imagined,therefore limitless) love's to giving as to keeping's give; as yes is to if,love is to yes.
Mr youse needn't be so spry concernin questions arty each has his tastes but as for i i likes a certain party gimme the he-man's solid bliss for youse ideas i'll match youse a pretty girl who naked is is worth a million statues.
Buffalo Bill's defunct who used to ride a watersmooth-silver stallion and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat Jesus he was a handsome man and what i want to know is how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death.
It is with roses and locomotives (not to mention acrobats Spring electricity Coney Island the 4th of July the eyes of mice and Niagara Falls) that my poems are competing.
So, when kiss Spring comes
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
lips because tic clocks tock don't make
a toctic difference
to kisskiss you and to
I remember we all cried like the Missouri when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because somebody pressed a button (and down went my uncle Sol and started a worm farm).
To be nobody-but-yourself -- in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else -- means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.
Losing through you what seemed myself, i find selves unimaginably mine; beyond sorrow's own joys and hopings very fears yours is the light by which my spirit's born: yours is the darkness of my soul's return... you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.
Lady through whose profound and fragile lips
the sweet small clumsy feet of April came
into the ragged meadow of my soul.
Love is the voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear; the strength so strong mere force is feebleness: the truth more first than sun, more last than star.
To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.
America makes prodigious mistakes, America has colossal faults, but one thing cannot be denied: America is always on the move. She may be going to Hell, of course, but at least she isn't standing still.
I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more.
To like an individual because he's black is just as insulting as to dislike him because he isn't white.
If a poet is anybody, he is somebody to whom things made matter very little -- somebody who is obsessed by Making.