What one seems to want in art, in experiencing it, is the same thing that is necessary for its creation, a self-forgetful, perfectly useless concentration. — Elizabeth Bishop Copy Share Image
“Exchanging Hats Unfunny uncles who insist in trying on a lady's hat, --oh, even if the joke falls flat, we share your slight transvestite… — Elizabeth Bishop Copy Share Image
“At the Fishhouses Although it is a cold evening, down by one of the fishhouses an old man sits netting, his net, in the… — Elizabeth Bishop Copy Share Image
I am sorry for people who can't write letters. But I suspect also that you and I ... love to write them because it's… — Elizabeth Bishop Copy Share Image
Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house. — Elizabeth Bishop Copy Share Image
“But they made me realize more than I ever had the rarity of true originality, and also the sort of alienation it might involve.” — Elizabeth Bishop Copy Share Image
“The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no… — Elizabeth Bishop Copy Share Image
The armored cars of dreams, contrived to let us do so many a dangerous thing. — Elizabeth Bishop Copy Share Image
Hoping to live days of greater happiness, I forget that days of less happiness are passing by. — Elizabeth Bishop Copy Share Image
Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.) — Elizabeth Bishop Copy Share Image
