Ezra Pound
Ezra Pound
Ezra Weston Loomis Poundwas an expatriate American poet and critic, and a major figure in the early modernist movement. His contribution to poetry began with his development of Imagism, a movement derived from classical Chinese and Japanese poetry, stressing clarity, precision and economy of language. His best-known works include Ripostes, Hugh Selwyn Mauberleyand the unfinished 120-section epic, The Cantos...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth30 October 1885
CityHailey, ID
CountryUnited States of America
Adolf Hitler was a Jeanne d'Arc, a saint. He was a martyr. Like many martyrs, he held extreme views.
The curse of me and my nation is that we always think things can be bettered by immediate action of some sort, any sort rather than no sort.
I did not enter into silence. Silence captured me.
No man understands a deep book until he has seen and lived at least part of its contents.
The concept of genius as akin to madness has been carefully cultivated by the inferiority complex of the public.
And New York is the most beautiful city in the world? It is not far from it. No urban night is like the night there... Squares after squares of flame, set up and cut into the aether. Here is our poetry, for we have pulled down the stars to our will.
There are few things more difficult than to appraise the work of a man suddenly dead in his youth; to disentangle promise from achievement; to save him from that sentimentalizing which confuses the tragedy of the interruption with the merit of the work actually performed.
Pay no attention to the criticism of men who have never themselves written a notable work.
A man of genius has a right to any mode of expression.
The real meditation is ... the meditation on one's identity. Ah, voilà une chose!! You try it. You try finding out why you're you and not somebody else. And who in the blazes are you anyhow? Ah, voilà une chose!
Come, let us pity those who are better off than we are. Come, my friend, and remember that the rich have butlers and no friends, And we have friends and no butlers. (excerpt from 'The Garrett')
I would hold the rosy, slender fingers of the dawn for you.
There is no reason why the same man should like the same books at eighteen and at forty-eight
Music begins to atrophy when it departs too far from the dance... poetry begins to atrophy when it gets too far from music.