Edith Sitwell
Edith Sitwell
Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell DBEwas a British poet and critic and the eldest of the three literary Sitwells...
NationalityBritish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth7 September 1877
women piano government
I wish the government would put a tax on pianos for the incompetent.
sarcastic reading writing
A great many people now reading and writing would be better employed keeping rabbits.
time thinking modesty
I have often wished I had time to cultivate modesty... but I am too busy thinking about myself.
believe writing virginia
Virginia Woolf's writing is no more than glamorous knitting. I believe she must have a pattern somewhere.
dream stars past
The busy chatter of the heat Shrilled like a parakeet; And shuddering at the noonday light The dust lay dead and white As powder on a mummy's face, Or fawned with simian grace Round booths with many a hard bright toy And wooden brittle joy: The cap and bells of Time the Clown That, jangling, whistled down Young cherubs hidden in the guise Of every bird that flies; And star-bright masks for youth to wear, Lest any dream that fare Bright pilgrim past our ken, should see Hints of Reality.
soul half glucose
Your soul: pure glucose edged with hints Of tentative and half-soiled tints
taste vices worst
Good taste is the worst vice ever invented.
truth believe media-control
The public will believe anything, so long as it is not founded on truth.
art reality poetry
Poetry is the deification of reality.
taken fire discipline
I have taken this step because I want the discipline, the fire and the authority of the Church. I am hopelessly unworthy of it, but I hope to become worthy.
men poetry speak
The poet speaks to all men of that other life of theirs that they have smothered and forgotten.
home winter weather
Winter is the time for comfort - it is the time for home.
trying looks pekingese
If one is a greyhound, why try to look like a Pekingese?
reality men use
As for the usefulness of poetry, its uses are many. It is the deification of reality. It should make our days holy to us. The poet should speak to all men, for a moment, of that other life of theirs that they have smothered and forgotten.