You live through that little piece of time that is yours, but that piece of time is not only your own life, it is the summing-up of all the other lives that are simultaneous with yours. . . . What you are is an expression of History.
—Robert Penn Warren, World Enough and Time
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Robert Penn Warren and "All the King's Men"
The 20th century produced so many great Southern chroniclers of crackerdom (William Faulkner, Thomas Wolfe, Tennessee Williams, Harper Lee and childhood friend Truman Capote, James Agee, Katharine Ann Porter, Flannery O’Connor) you will perhaps forgive me for placing Robert Penn Warren (1905-1989) at the back of the pack, near the likes of Margaret Mitchell and Erskine Caldwell. I remind you that…
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The person who loves you has picked you out of the great mass of uncreated clay which is humanity to make something out of, and the poor lumpish clay which is you wants to find out what it has been made into. But at the same time, you, in the act of loving somebody, become real, cease to be a part of the continuum of the uncreated clay and get the breath of life in you and rise. So you create yourself by creating another person, who, however, has also created you, picking up the you-chunk of clay out of the mass. So there are two you's, the one you yourself create by loving and the one the beloved creates by loving you. The farther those two you's are apart the more the world grinds and grudges on its axis. But if you loved and were loved perfectly then there wouldn't be any difference between the two you's or any distance between them. They would coincide perfectly, there would be a perfect focus, as when a stereoscope gets the twin images on the card into perfect alignment
Robert Penn Warren, All the King's Men
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"It is because he is a romantic, and he has a picture of the world in his head, and when the world doesn't conform in any respect to the picture, he wants to throw the world away. Even if that means throwing out the baby with the bath. Which, it always does mean."
A masterpiece of American literature, All the King's Men explores political corruption and tortured idealism better than most books I have read. Pulitzer Prize-winning author Robert Penn Warren was born on this day. An acclaimed poet as well as a novelist, his magnum opus is arresting in its depiction of political immorality and beautiful in its prose.
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A poem by Robert Penn Warren
Bad Year, Bad War: New Year’s Card
“Without the shedding of blood
there is no remission of sins.”
—Epistle to the Hebrews, 9:22
That was the year of the bad war. The others—
Wars, that is—had been virtuous. If blood
Was shed, it was, in a way, sacramental, redeeming
Even those evil people from whose veins it flowed,
Into the benign logic of History, and some,
By common report, even the most brutalized, died with a shy
And grateful smile on the face, as though they,
At the last, understood. Our own wounds were, of course, precious.
There is always imprecision in human affairs, and war
Is no exception, therefore the innocent—
Though innocence is, it should be remembered, a complex concept—
Must sometimes suffer. There is the blunt
Justice of the falling beam, the paw-flick of
The unselective flame. But happily,
If one’s conscience attests to ultimate innocence,
Then the brief suffering of those incidentally innocent
Can be regarded, with pity to be sure, as merely
The historical cost of the process by which
The larger innocence fulfills itself in
The realm of contingency. For conscience
Is, of innocence, the final criterion, and the fact that now we
Are troubled, and candidly admit it, simply proves
That in the past we, being then untroubled,
Were innocent. Dear God, we pray
To be restored to that purity of heart
That sanctifies the shedding of blood.
Robert Penn Warren
(1905-1989)
First published in The New York Review: March 1969
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Tell me a story,
Make it a story of great distances, and starlight.
The name of the story will be Time,
But you must not pronounce its name.
Robert Penn Warren, Audubon: A Vision
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Was at a vintage bookstore and admiring the pretty spines of a few books but would never read them cuz it was boring patriotic history shit. But while checking out I see a lone book with a beautiful spine and page tint and it was poetry!! Exciting. I open up to a random page and immediately am met with the n word.
Took ages to find the authors name but. Yup. Random white dude. Lovely.
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