“You delight me by saying some of my poems sound as though they had come in a rush. but none of them have with the exception of “You, Andrew Marvell,” which was there at the end of a morning and finished by night. I am sure—I mean I am not sure at all but I believe—the master poets must come at their poems as a hawk on a pigeon in one dive.
I can’t. I chip away like a stonemason who has got it into his head that there is a pigeon in that block of marble. But there’s delight in the chipping. At least there’s a delight in it when your hunch that the pigeon in there is stronger than you are carries you along. There is no straining then nor are you strained—all assurance and confidence. Oh, you can be fooled, of course—there may be nothing there but a stone.”
—Archibald MacLeish, from The Writer’s Chapbook, edited and introduced by George Plimpton (Viking, 1989)
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