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Charles Simic Biography

Charles Simic (Serbian: Душан "Чарлс" Симић [dǔʃan tʃârls sǐːmitɕ]; born Dušan Simić; May 9, 1938) is a Serbian-American poet and was co-poetry editor of the Paris Review. He received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1990 for The World Doesn't End, and was a finalist of the Pulitzer Prize in 1986 for Selected Poems, 1963-1983 and in 1987 for Unending Blues. He was appointed the fifteenth Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in 2007.

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Charles Simic Quotes

I was already dozing off in the shade, dreaming that the rustling trees were my many selves explaining themselves all at the same time so that I could not make out a single word. My life was a beautiful mystery on the verge of understanding, always on the verge! Think of it!

Beautiful, Dream, Explaining, Shade, Thinking, Time

Here in the United States, we speak with reverence of authentic experience. We write poems about our daddies taking us fishing and breaking our hearts by making us throw the little fish back into the river. We even tell the reader the kind of car we were driving, the year and the model, to give the impression that it’s all true. It’s because we think of ourselves as journalists of a kind. Like them, we’ll go anywhere for a story. Don’t believe a word of it. As any poet can tell you, one often sees better with eyes closed than with eyes wide open.

Believe, Eye, Hearts, Poems, Taking, Writing

One writes because one has been touched by the yearning for and the despair of ever touching the Other.

Despair, Touching, Writes, Writing, Yearning

Roberto Calasso's survey of the renewed interest in myth demonstrates how decisive the gods' influence was on modern literature. Calasso is not only immensely learned; he is one of the most original thinkers and writers we have today.

Decisive, Immensely, Influence, Literature, Today

The ambition of much of today's literary theory seems to be to find ways to read literature without imagination.

Ambition, Imagination, Literary Theory, Literature, Read

Only brooms Know the devil Still exists, That the snow grows whiter After a crow has flown over it

Crow, Devil, Evil, Grows, Snow

We name one thing and then another. That’s how time enters poetry. Space, on the other hand, comes into being through the attention we pay to each word. The more intense our attention, the more space, and there’s a lot of space inside words.

Hands, Names, Space, Attention, Poetry, Hand

The world is beautiful but not sayable. That's why we need art.

Art, Beautiful, Needs, World

Poems are other people's snapshots in which we see our own lives.

Lives, People, Poems, See, Snapshots

The poem I want to write is impossible. A stone that floats.

Impossible, Poem, Stones, Want, Write, Writing

The stone is a mirror which works poorly. Nothing in it but dimness. Your dimness or its dimness, who's to say? In the hush your heart sounds like a black cricket.

Black, Heart, Mirror, Mirrors, Stone

I'm not a stickler for truth. To me, lying in poetry is much more fun. I'm against lying in life, in principle, in any other activity except poetry.

Except, Fun, Lying, Principles, Truth

There are people who live inside their heads and their intellects. It's something one is born with and stuck with. It's not something you make a decision about.

Born, Decision, Live, People

The secret wish of poetry is to stop time.

Poetry Is, Secret, Stop, Time, Wish

There are knives that glitter like altars In a dark church Where they bring the cripple and the imbecile To be healed. There's a woden block where bones are broken, Scraped clean--a river dried to its bed

Altars, Block, Dark, Knives, Woden

The stars know everything, So we try to read their minds. As distant as they are, We choose to whisper in their presence.

Choose, Know, Mind, Stars, Trying, Whisper

Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket.

Blanket, Enough, Firefighter, Needle, Poetry, Sew

A poem is an invitation to a voyage. As in life, we travel to see fresh sights.

Fresh, Invitation, Invitations, Poem, Sight, Voyages

The highest levels of consciousness are wordless.

Consciousness, Highest, Levels, Wordless

Found objects, chance creations, ready-mades (mass-produced items promoted into art objects, such as Duchamp's "Fountain"-urinal as sculpture) abolish the separation between art and life. The commonplace is miraculous if rightly seen.

Abolish, Art, Found Objects, Objects, Sculpture

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