Best 75 of Ted Hughes quotes - MyQuotes

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Ted Hughes
By Anonym 19 Sep

Ted Hughes

Well, the terrible fact is that though we are all more or less thinking of something or other all the time, some of us are thinking more and some less. Some brains are battling and working and remembering and puzzling things over all the time and other brains are just lying down, snoring and occasionally turning over. It is to the lazy minds that I am now speaking, and from my own experience I imagine this includes nineteen people out of every twenty. I am one of that clan myself and always have been.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Ted Hughes

Nobody knew the Iron Man had fallen. Night passed.

By Anonym 19 Sep

Ted Hughes

To hatch a crow, a black rainbow Bent in emptiness over emptiness But flying

By Anonym 17 Sep

Ted Hughes

Mary is an apple. Whoever plucks her Nails his heart To the leafless tree.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Ted Hughes

The Shell The sea fills my ear with sand and with fear. You may wash out the sand, but never the sound of the ghost of the sea that is haunting me.

By Anonym 19 Sep

Ted Hughes

What I am going to propose is that you write a novel. As you know, the practical advantages of being able to write out your thoughts fluently are very great. For one thing, when you are used to writing them out, they present themselves, one after another. When you are not used to writing them out, they mill around among themselves usually and you see nothing but heads and tails of them when you sit down to get them on paper. I know from my own experience that the first two or three hours of every exam I ever took were spent simply getting my pen warmed up, and by then it was too late.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Ted Hughes

The jaws' hooked clamp and fangs Not to be changed at this date; A life subdued to its instrument.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Ted Hughes

The deeps are cold: In that darkness camaraderie does not hold: Nothing touches but, clutching, devours.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Ted Hughes

In the beginning was Scream Who begat Blood Who begat Eye Who begat Fear Who begat Wing Who begat Bone Who begat Granite Who begat Violet Who begat Guitar Who begat Sweat Who begat Adam Who begat Mary Who begat God Who begat Nothing Who begat Never Never Never Never Who begat Crow Screaming for Blood Grubs, crusts Anything Trembling featherless elbows in the nest's filth

By Anonym 19 Sep

Ted Hughes

The only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldy enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Ted Hughes

You could become internationally famous - you're Gemini, and according to antique authority have a literary talent, which of course your letters prove.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Ted Hughes

The world rolls under the long thrust of his heel. Over the cage floor the horizons come.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Ted Hughes

It took the whole of Creation To produce my foot, my each feather: Now I hold Creation in my foot. Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly - I kill where I please because it is all mine. There is no sophistry in my body: My manners are tearing off heads - The allotment of death.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Ted Hughes

The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Ted Hughes

And that's how we measure out our real respect for people—by the degree of feeling they can register, the voltage of life they can carry and tolerate—and enjoy. End of sermon. As Buddha says: live like a mighty river. And as the old Greeks said: live as though all your ancestors were living again through you.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Ted Hughes

So this was the reverse of dazzling Nauset. The flip of the coin - the flip of an ocean fallen Dream-face down. And here, at my feet, in the suds, The other face, the real, staring upwards.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Ted Hughes

The sea cries with its meaningless voice, Treating alike its dead and its living

By Anonym 16 Sep

Ted Hughes

If you were writing a book to be published, you might be restrained by the fear that your wild imaginings might drive some people crazy. As it is, you are free, you can go off in any direction whatsoever, so long as the flame in your mind burns that way.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Ted Hughes

The inmost spirit of poetry, in other words, is at bottom, in every recorded case, the voice of pain – and the physical body, so to speak, of poetry, is the treatment by which the poet tries to reconcile that pain with the world.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Ted Hughes

This house has been far out at sea all night, The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills, Winds stampeding the fields under the window Floundering black astride and blinding wet Till day rose; then under an orange sky The hills had new places, and wind wielded Blade-light, luminous black and emerald, Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Ted Hughes

And at that very moment, the smile arrived And the crowd, shoving to get a glimpse of a man's soul Stripped to its last shame, Met this smile That rose through his torn roots Touching his lips, altering his eyes And for a moment Mending everything Before it swept out and away across the earth.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Ted Hughes

The difference between a fairly interesting writer and a fascinating writer is that the fascinating writer has a better nose for what genuinely excites him, he is hotter on the trail, he has a better instinct for what is truly alive in him. The worse writer may seem to be more sensible in many ways, but he is less sensible in this vital matter: he cannot distinguish what is full of life from what is only half full or empty of it. And so his writing is less alive, and as a writer he is less alive, and in writing, as in everything else, nothing matters but life.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Ted Hughes

With a sudden sharp hot stink of fox, It enters the dark hole of the head. The window is starless still; the clock ticks, The page is printed.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Ted Hughes

He picked up a greasy black stove and chewed it like a toffee. There were delicious crumbs of chrome on it. He followed that with a double-decker bedstead and the brass knobs made his eyes crackle with joy. Never before had the Iron Man eaten such delicacies. As he lay there, a big truck turned into the yard and unloaded a pile of rusty chain. The Iron Man lifted a handful and let it dangle into his mouth - better than any spaghetti. So there they left him. It was an Iron Man's heaven.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Ted Hughes

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed. Inaction, no falsifying dream Between my hooked head and hooked feet: Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Ted Hughes

...imagine what you are writing about. See it and live it. Do not think it up laboriously, as if you were working out mental arithmetic. Just look at it, touch it, smell it, listen to it, turn yourself into it. When you do this, the words look after themselves, like magic.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Ted Hughes

So we found the end of our journey. So we stood, alive in the river of light, Among the creatures of light, creatures of light.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Ted Hughes

So the self under the eye lies, Attendant and withdrawn.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Ted Hughes

The difficult thing is not to pick up the information but to recognise it - to accept it into our consciousness. Most of us find it difficult to know what we are feeling about anything. In any situation it is almost impossible to know what is really happening to us. This is one of the penalties of being human and having a brain so swarming with interesting suggestions and ideas and self-distrust.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Ted Hughes

I think it was Milosz, the Polish poet, who when he lay in a doorway and watched the bullets lifting the cobbles out of the street beside him realised that most poetry is not equipped for life in a world where people actually die. But some is.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Ted Hughes

I shall also take you forth and carve our names together in a yew tree, haloed with stars.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Ted Hughes

Nobody wanted your dance, Nobody wanted your strange glitter, your floundering Drowning life and your effort to save yourself, Treading water, dancing the dark turmoil, Looking for something to give.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Ted Hughes

It took the whole of Creation to produce my foot, my each feather: now I hold Creation in my foot.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Ted Hughes

Black was the without eye Black the within tongue Black was the heart Black the liver, black the lungs Unable to suck in light Black the blood in its loud tunnel Black the bowels packed in furnace Black too the muscles Striving to pull out into the light Black the nerves, black the brain With its tombed visions Black also the soul, the huge stammer Of the cry that, swelling, could not Pronounce its sun.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Ted Hughes

Show him every dawn & read to him endlessly.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Ted Hughes

That's the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they're suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful armour, and the naked child is flung out onto the world. That's why the things that are worst to undergo are best to remember. But when that child gets buried away under their adaptive and protective shells—he becomes one of the walking dead, a monster.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Ted Hughes

Some word - from before this translation

By Anonym 13 Sep

Ted Hughes

He was his own leftover, the spat-out scrag. He was what his brain could make nothing of.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Ted Hughes

The first sorrow of autumn is the slow good-bye of the garden that stands so long in the evening—a brown poppy head, the stalk of a lily, and still cannot go. The second sorrow is the empty feet of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers. The woodland of gold is folded in feathers with its head in a bag. And the third sorrow is the slow good-bye of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers the minutes of evening, the golden and holy ground of the picture. The fourth sorrow is the pond gone black, ruined, and sunken the city of water—the beetle's palace, the catacombs of the dragonfly. And the fifth sorrow is the slow good-bye of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp. One day it's gone. It has only left litter—firewood, tent poles. And the sixth sorrow is the fox's sorrow, the joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds, the hooves that pound; till earth closes her ear to the fox's prayer. And the seventh sorrow is the slow good-bye of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window as the year packs up like a tatty fairground that came for the children.

By Anonym 19 Sep

Ted Hughes

T.S. Eliot said to me 'There’s only one way a poet can develop his actual writing – apart from self-criticism & continual practice. And that is by reading other poetry aloud – and it doesn’t matter whether he understands it or not (i.e. even if it’s in another language.) What matters above all, is educating the ear.' What matters, is to connect your own voice with an infinite range of verbal cadences & sequences – and only endless actual experience of your ear can store all that in your nervous system. The rest can be left to your life & your character.

By Anonym 19 Sep

Ted Hughes

There is the inner life, which is the world of final reality, the world of memory, emotion, imagination, intelligence, and natural common sense, and which goes on all the time like the heartbeat. There is also the thinking process by which we break into that inner life and capture answers and evidence to support the answers out of it. That process of raid, or persuasion, or ambush, or dogged hunting, or surrender, is the kind of thinking we have to learn and if we do not somehow learn it, then our minds lie in us like the fish in the pond of a man who cannot fish.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Ted Hughes

The gash in its throat was shocking, but not pathetic.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Ted Hughes

Nothing has changed since I began. My eye has permitted no change. I am going to keep things like this.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Ted Hughes

Every single person is vulnerable to unexpected defeat in this inmost emotional self. At every moment, behind the most efficient seeming adult exterior, the whole world of the person's childhood is being carefully held like a glass of water bulging above the brim. And in fact, that child is the only real thing in them. It's their humanity, their real individuality, the one that can't understand why it was born and that knows it will have to die, in no matter how crowded a place, quite on its own. That's the carrier of all the living qualities. It's the centre of all the possible magic and revelation.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Ted Hughes

In those days I coerced Oracular assurance In my favour out of every sign.

By Anonym 19 Sep

Ted Hughes

There is no correct way to write a novel, or rather, there is only one, and that one way is to make it interesting. That is very easily said, but how do you make your writing interesting? The answer to the question is, that you write interestingly only about the things that genuinely interest you. This is an infallible rule.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Ted Hughes

If you're all so peaceful up there, how did you get such greedy and cruel ideas?" The dragon was silent for a long time after this question. And at last he said: "It just came over me. I don't know why. It just came over me, listening to the battling shouts and the war-cries of the earth - I got excited, I wanted to join in.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Ted Hughes

As Popa penetrates deeper into his life, with book after book, it begins to look like a Universe passing through a Universe. It is one of the most exciting things in modern poetry, to watch this journey being made.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Ted Hughes

One day God felt he ought to give his workshop a spring clean... It was amazing what ragged bits and pieces came from under his workbench as he swept. Beginnings of creatures, bits that looked useful but had seemed wrong, ideas he'd mislaid and forgotten... There was even a tiny lump of sun. He scratched his head. What could be done with all this rubbish?

By Anonym 14 Sep

Ted Hughes

The Bush administration doesn't particularly like public participation. It makes them look bad.