Almost the only thing I still like nowadays is this process of scraping away. No more stylistic gewgaws. Tear yourself in half or else take the finished poem and tear that in half.
(April 15, 1937, Letters to Marcel Béalu)
—Max Jacob, Hesitant Fire, Selected Prose of Max Jacob (U. of Nebraska Press, 1991),
translated and edited by Moishe Black and Maria Green.
Showing posts with label Max Jacob. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Max Jacob. Show all posts
soap-bubble line
Think your sentences before you write them; otherwise they are like the continuous bumps of bubbly soap that used to be left in the bowl instead of becoming the iridescent globes desired by the pipes of our childhood. A line of poetry is an iridescent soap-bubble.
(March 1, 1949, Letters to Marcel Béalu)
—Max Jacob, Hesitant Fire (U. of Nebraska Press, 1991), selected prose of Max Jacob, translated and edited by Moishe Black and Maria Green
(March 1, 1949, Letters to Marcel Béalu)
—Max Jacob, Hesitant Fire (U. of Nebraska Press, 1991), selected prose of Max Jacob, translated and edited by Moishe Black and Maria Green
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