Russell Edson Famous Quotes
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Remember, words are the enemy of poetry.
She fell in love with her doctor's stethoscope, the way it listened to her heart.
This is the house of the closet-man. There are no rooms, just hallways and closets.
Things happen in rooms. He does not like things to happen.
Let us consider the farmer who makes his straw hat his
sweetheart; or the old woman who makes a floor lamp her son;
or the young woman who has set herself the task of scraping
her shadow off a wall....
Let us consider the old woman who wore smoked cows'
tongues for shoes and walked a meadow gathering cow chips
in her apron; or a mirror grown dark with age that was given
to a blind man who spent his nights looking into it, which
saddened his mother, that her son should be so lost in
vanity....
Let us consider the man who fried roses for his dinner,
whose kitchen smelled like a burning rose garden; or the man
who disguised himself as a moth and ate his overcoat, and for
dessert served himself a chilled fedora....
Goddamn these sentiences, roared the tree with birds shrieking in its branches.
So Mr Brain opened his mouth to let a moonbeam into his head.
It is very difficult to stop feeling.
The best advice I can give is to ignore advice. Life is too short to be distracted by the opinions of others.
Perhaps I should kiss the face of the kitchen clock for luck. Perhaps its little hands with rapture would encircle my neck and we might be happy. I am sure happiness is not too far away
What shall I do? screamed his son.
Sit until time embraces you into the bosom of its velvet quiet, cried the father.
Like this? cried his son as his son became dust.
Everything is made of time, and we go out in waves, accumulating around ourselves in halos of dust, the borders bleeding into each other; the tearing and merging of clouds.
On the other side of a mirror there's an inverse world, where the insane go sane; where bones climb out of the earth and recede to the first slime of love.
I never liked the term "experimental writing," but what else is a prose poem? Having written a number of them, I still don't know how they're written.
If one cannot accept failure and scorn, how is he to make his art? It's like wanting to go to heaven without dying.
