Heart, we will forget him, You and I, tonight! You must forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light.
Emily DickinsonRead
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?
Interpretation
The quote expresses the profound impact poetry has on the human experience, evoking intense emotional and physical sensations.
Emily Dickinson's quote explores the powerful effects of poetry on the reader. She describes the physical and emotional reactions that great poetry can elicit, such as feeling cold to the bone or as if one's head has been removed. This intensity is what Dickinson recognizes as the hallmark of true poetry, suggesting that its influence goes far beyond words, reaching deep into the soul and body, creating a unique, transformative experience.
In practice
In a literature class discussion about the emotional power of poetry.
Heart, we will forget him, You and I, tonight! You must forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light.
I held a jewel in my fingers And went to sleep. The day was warm, and winds were prosy; I said: "'T will keep." I woke and chid my honest fingers,— The gem was gone; And now an amethyst remembrance Is all I own.
I'll tell you how the sun rose, a ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst, The news like squirrels ran. The hills untied their bonnets, The bobolinks begun. Then I said softly to myself, "That must have been the sun!
My best Acquaintances are those With Whom I spoke no Word
This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go---
Luck is not chance, it's toil; fortune's expensive smile is earned.
I didn't want to make cinema so a person forgets himself and has a lot of fun. 'I forget myself, I am a little poor consumer.' I wanted to make a picture where someone who sees it say, 'This is me! This is me!'
To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the inner music that words make.
Mere humans who root through their refrigerators at three o'clock in the morning can only produce writing that matches what they do. And that includes me.
The uglier, older, meaner, iller, poorer I get, the more I wish to take my revenge by doing brilliant color, well arranged, resplendent.
In the studio you can auto tune vocals, and with drums, you can put them on a grid and make them perfect. I hate that sound. When someone hands me a record and the drums are perfectly gridded and the vocals are perfectly auto tuned, I throw it out the window. I have no interest in rock music being like that.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of the night.
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