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E. E. Cummings

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About Me

Art is a mystery.A mystery is something immeasurable.In so far as every child and woman and man may be immeasurable, art is the mystery of every man and woman and child. In so far as a human being is an artist, skies and mountains and oceans and thunderbolts and butterflies are immeasurable; and art is every mystery of nature. Nothing measurable can be alive; nothing which is not alive can be art; nothing which cannot be art is true: and everything untrue doesnt matter a very good God damn...It is Art because it is alive. It proves that, if you and I are to create at all, we must create with today and let all the Art schools and Medicis in the universe go hang themselves with yesterdays rope. It teaches us that we have made a profound error in trying to learn Art, since whatever Art stands for is whatever cannot be learned. Indeed, the Artist is no other than he who unlearns what he has learned, in order to know himself; and the agony of the Artist, far from being the result of the worlds failure to discover and appreciate him, arises from his own personal struggle to discover, to appreciate and finally to express himself. Look into yourself, reader; for you must find Art there, if at all.So, ungentle reader, (as you and I value what we should ashamed--after witnessing a few minor circus-marvels--to call our "lives,") let us never be fooled into taking seriously that perfectly superficial distinction which is vulgarly drawn between the circus-show and "art" or "the arts." Let us not forget that every authentic "work of art" is in and of itself alive and that, however "the arts" may differ among themselves, their common function is the expression of that supreme alive-ness which is known as "beauty." This being so, our three ring circus is art--for to contend that the spectacle in question is not an authentic manifestation of "beauty" is as childish, as to dismiss the circus on the ground that it is "childish," is idiotic.The question now arises, how much of all this is really Art?The answer is: we do not know. The great men of the future will most certainly profit by the experimentation of the present period. An insight into the unbroken chain of artistic development during the last half century disproves the theory that modernism is without foundation; rather we are concerned with a natural unfolding of sound tendencies. That the conclusion is, in a particular case, absurdity, does not in any way impair the value of the experiment, so long as we are dealing with sincere effort. The New Art, maligned though it may be by fakirs and fanatics, will appear in its essential spirit to the unprejudiced critic as a courageous and genuine exploration of untrodden ways.
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My Interests

Poetry and every other art was and is and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality....poetry is being, not doing....if poetry is your goal, you've got to forget all about punishments and all about rewards and all about self-styled obligations and duties and responsibilities...writing...is an art; and artists...are human beings. As a human being stands, so a human being is. There are certain things in which one is unable to believe for the simple reason that he never ceases to feel them. Things of this sort--things which are always inside of us and in fact are us and which consequently will not be pushed off or away where we can begin thinking about them--are no longer things; they, and the us which they are, equals A Verb; an IS. At least my theory of technique, if I have one, is very far from original; nor is it complicated. I can express it in fifteen words, by quoting The Eternal Question And Immortal Answer of burlesk,viz. "Would you hit a woman with a child?--No, I'd hit her with a brick." Like the burlesk comedian, I am abnormally fond of that precision which creates movement. Burlesque appeals to me. I’ve seen in the past thirty years of my proletarian life, a lot of burlesque shows (and I hope to see a lot more). Not to completely feel is thinking...to grow is a fate...I recognize immediately three mysteries: love, art, and selftranscendence or growing.

I'd like to meet:

!you,d ear(r e a der )ofwo rds,you

Books:

Eight Harvard Poets. New York: Laurence J. Gomme, 1917. The Enormous Room. New York: Boni and Liveright, 1922. Tulips and Chimneys. New York: Thomas Seltzer, 1923. &. New York: Privately Printed, 1925. XLI Poems. New York: The Dial Press, 1925. Is 5. New York: Boni and Liveright,1926. Him. New York: Boni and Liveright, 1927. {No Title}. New York: Covici-Friede, 1930. CIOPW. New York: Covici-Friede, 1931. ViVa. New York: Liveright, 1931. Eimi. New York: Covici-Friede, 1933. No Thanks. New York: Golden Eagle Press, 1935. Tom. New York: Arrow Editions, 1935. Collected Poems. New York: Jarcourt Brace, 1938. 50 Poems. New York: Duell, Sloane and Pearce, 1940. 1 x 1. New York: Henry Holt, 1944. Santa Claus. New York: Henry Holt, 1946. Xaipe. New York: Oxford UP, 1950. I: six nonlectures. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1953. Poems 1923-1954. New York: Harcourt Brace, 1954 95 Poems. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1958. 73 Poems. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1963.Selected Letters of E. E. Cummings. F. W. Dupee and George Stade, eds. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1969. Complete Poems 1923-1964. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1972. Etcetera: The Unpublished Poems of E. E. Cummings. New York: Liveright, 1983. Complete Poems 1904-1962. New York: Liveright, 1991

My Blog

pity this busy monster,manunkind

pity this busy monster,manunkind,not.  Progress is a comfortable disease:your victum(death and life safely beyond)plays with the bigness of his littleness-electrons deify one razorbladeinto a mou...
Posted by E. E. Cummings on Wed, 03 May 2006 09:03:00 PST

may if feel said he

may i feel said he (i'll squeal said she just once said he) it's fun said she (may i touch said he how much said she a lot said he) why not said she (let's go said he not too far said she what's t...
Posted by E. E. Cummings on Wed, 03 May 2006 08:57:00 PST

since feeling is first

since feeling is first who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you; wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world my blood approves, and kisses are a better fate tha...
Posted by E. E. Cummings on Wed, 03 May 2006 08:51:00 PST

nobody loses all the time

nobody loses all the timei had an uncle namedSol who was a born failure andnearly everybody said he should have goneinto vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol couldsing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas...
Posted by E. E. Cummings on Wed, 03 May 2006 08:04:00 PST

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near ...
Posted by E. E. Cummings on Mon, 01 May 2006 03:53:00 PST

maggie and milly and molly and may

maggie and milly and molly and maywent down to the beach(to play one day)and maggie discovered a shell that sangso sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,andmilly befriended a stranded starwhose r...
Posted by E. E. Cummings on Mon, 01 May 2006 03:52:00 PST

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it inmy heart)i am never without it(anywherei go you go,my dear; and whatever is doneby only me is your doing,my darling)i fearno fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i...
Posted by E. E. Cummings on Mon, 01 May 2006 03:50:00 PST

a total stranger one black day

a total stranger one black day knocked living the hell out of me-- who found forgiveness hard because my(as it happened)self he was -but now that fiend and i are such immortal friends the other's ...
Posted by E. E. Cummings on Mon, 01 May 2006 03:49:00 PST

"Forward to an Exhibit: II"

Why do you paint?For exactly the same reason I breathe.Thats not an answer.There isnt any answer.How long hasnt there been any answer?As long as I can remember.And how long have you written?As long as...
Posted by E. E. Cummings on Mon, 01 May 2006 03:45:00 PST

anyone lived in a pretty how town

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 a...
Posted by E. E. Cummings on Mon, 01 May 2006 03:42:00 PST