18 Total Quotes

Robert Lowell Quotes

The light at the end of the tunnel is just the light of an oncoming train.
Robert Lowell
#American Poet #Light

If we see light at the end of the tunnel, it the light of the oncoming train.
Robert Lowell
#American Poet #Light

It's the light of the oncoming train.
Robert Lowell
#Light

This is death / To die and know it. This is the Black Widow, death.
Robert Lowell
#Death

The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.
Robert Lowell
#American Poet

If youth is a defect, it is one we outgrow too soon.
Robert Lowell
#American Poet #Youth

Is getting well ever an art/ Or art a way to get well.
Robert Lowell
#Art

It is almost never possible to do pre-licensing studies that are large enough to find very rare events with great certainty, ... We have to find the correct balance between safety and making new preventive tools -- such as vaccines -- at a cost our society can afford.
Robert Lowell
#Events

In Boston serpents whistle at the cold.
Robert Lowell
#American Poet

It was a Maine lobster town-- each morning boatloads of hands pushed off for granite quarries on the islands, and left dozens of bleak white frame houses stuck like oyster shells on a hill of rock, and below us, the sea lapped the raw little match-stick mazes of a weir, where the fish for bait were trapped. Remember? We sat on a slab of rock. >From this distance in time it seems the color of iris, rotting and turning purpler, but it was only the usual gray rock turning the usual green when drenched by the sea. The sea drenched the rock at our feet all day, and kept tearing away flake after flake. One night you dreamed you were a mermaid clinging to a wharf-pile, and trying to pull off the barnacles with your hands. We wished our two souls might return like gulls to the rock. In the end, the water was too cold for us.
Robert Lowell
#Water

What was is . . . since 1930; the boys in my old gang are senior partners. They start up bald like baby birds to embrace retirement. At the altar of surrender, I met you in the hour of credulity. How your misfortune came out clearly to us at twenty. At the gingerbread casino, how innocent the nights we made it on our Vesuvio martinis with no vermouth but vodka to sweeten the dry gin-- the lash across my face that night we adored . . . soon every night and all, when your sweet, amorous repetition changed. Fertility is not to the forward, or beauty to the precipitous-- things gone wrong clothe summer with gold leaf. Sometimes I catch my mind circling for you with glazed eye-- my lost love hunting your lost face. Summer to summer, the poplars sere in the glare-- it's a town for the young, they break themselves against the surf. No dog knows my smell.
Robert Lowell
#Home #Retirement

History has to live with what was here, clutching and close to fumbling all we had-- it is so dull and gruesome how we die, unlike writing, life never finishes. Abel was finished; death is not remote, a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic, his cows crowding like skulls against high-voltage wire, his baby crying all night like a new machine. As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory, the beautiful, mist-drunken hunter's moon ascends-- a child could give it a face: two holes, two holes, my eyes, my mouth, between them a skull's no-nose-- O there's a terrifying innocence in my face drenched with the silver salvage of the mornfrost.
Robert Lowell
#History

"It is the future generation that presses into being by means of these exuberant feelings and supersensible soap bubbles of ours." --Schopenhauer "The hot night makes us keep our bedroom windows open. Our magnolia blossoms. Life begins to happen. My hopped up husband drops his home disputes, and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes, free-lancing out along the razor's edge. This screwball might kill his wife, then take the pledge. Oh the monotonous meanness of his lust. . . It's the injustice . . . he is so unjust-- whiskey-blind, swaggering home at five. My only thought is how to keep alive. What makes him tick? Each night now I tie ten dollars and his car key to my thigh. . . . Gored by the climacteric of his want, he stalls above me like an elephant."
Robert Lowell
#Marriage

Gone now the baby's nurse, a lioness who ruled the roost and made the Mother cry. She used to tie gobbets of porkrind to bowknots of gauze-- three months they hung like soggy toast on our eight foot magnolia tree, and helped the English sparrows weather a Boston winter. Three months, three months! Is Richard now himself again? Dimpled with exaltation, my daughter holds her levee in the tub. Our noses rub, each of us pats a stringy lock of hair-- they tell me nothing's gone. Though I am forty-one, not fourty now, the time I put away was child's play. After thirteen weeks my child still dabs her cheeks to start me shaving. When we dress her in her sky-blue corduroy, she changes to a boy, and floats my shaving brush and washcloth in the flush... Dearest I cannot loiter here in lather like a polar bear. Recuperating, I neither spin nor toil. Three stories down below, a choreman tends our coffin length of soil, and seven horizontal tulips blow. Just twelve months ago, these flowers were pedigreed imported Dutchmen, now no one need distunguish them from weed. Bushed by the late spring snow, they cannot meet another year's snowballing enervation. I keep no rank nor station. Cured, I am frizzled, stale and small."
Robert Lowell
#Home