Quotes by Paul Engle

Paul Engle

A barn with cattle and horses is the place to begin Christmas; after all, that’s where the original event happened, and that same smell was the first air that the Christ Child breathed.

Air

Children

Horse

All families had their special Christmas food. Ours was called Dutch Bread, made from a dough halfway between bread and cake, stuffed with citron and every sort of nut from the farm – hazel, black walnut, hickory, butternut.

Black

Cake

Nuts

All poetry is an ordered voice, one which tries to tell you about a vision in the un-visionary language of farm, city, and love.

Cities

Love

Voice

But maybe it’s up the hills or under the leaves or in a ditch somewhere. Maybe it’s never found. But what you find, whatever you find, is only part of the missing, and writing is the way the poet finds out what it is he found.

College

Missing

Writing

Contrary to slanderous Eastern opinion, much of Iowa is not flat, but rolling hills country with a lot of timber, a handsome and imaginative landscape, crowded with constant small changes of scene and full of little creeks winding with pools where shiners, crappies and catfish hover.

Country

Iowa

Small Changes

Corncobs are the greatest fire-making tinder.

Fire

Tinder

Every Christmas should begin with the sound of bells, and when I was a child mine always did. But they were sleigh bells, not church bells, for we lived in a part of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where there were no churches.

Children

Church Bells

Iowa

For my Oxford degree, I had to translate French and German philosophy (as it turned out, Descartes and Kant) at sight without a dictionary. That meant Germany for my first summer vacation, to learn the thorny language on my own.

Philosophy

Summer

Vacation

Has the painter not always gone to an art school, or at least to an established master, for instruction? And the composer, the sculptor, the architect? Then why not the writer? Good poets, like good hybrid corn, are both born and made.

Art

Gone

School

Human life is too difficult for people.

Human Life

Life Is

People

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Abundance

Age

Air

Art

Automobile

Battle

Bills

Black

Boys

Cake

Children

Christmas

Church Bells

Cities

College

Country

Delight

Drug

Envy

Father

Fire

Firsts

Gone

Grief

Hands

Holiday

Home

Horizon

Horse

House

Human Life

Ideas

Illinois

Iowa

July

Kids

Knives

Language And Power

Library

Life Is

Littles

Love

Memories

Missing

Mother

New York

Nuts

Ordinary

Pages

Paid

The Future Blueprint

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Quotes by Paul Engle

Paul Engle

A barn with cattle and horses is the place to begin Christmas; after all, that’s where the original event happened, and that same smell was the first air that the Christ Child breathed.

All families had their special Christmas food. Ours was called Dutch Bread, made from a dough halfway between bread and cake, stuffed with citron and every sort of nut from the farm – hazel, black walnut, hickory, butternut.

All poetry is an ordered voice, one which tries to tell you about a vision in the un-visionary language of farm, city, and love.

But maybe it’s up the hills or under the leaves or in a ditch somewhere. Maybe it’s never found. But what you find, whatever you find, is only part of the missing, and writing is the way the poet finds out what it is he found.

Contrary to slanderous Eastern opinion, much of Iowa is not flat, but rolling hills country with a lot of timber, a handsome and imaginative landscape, crowded with constant small changes of scene and full of little creeks winding with pools where shiners, crappies and catfish hover.

Corncobs are the greatest fire-making tinder.

Every Christmas should begin with the sound of bells, and when I was a child mine always did. But they were sleigh bells, not church bells, for we lived in a part of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where there were no churches.

For my Oxford degree, I had to translate French and German philosophy (as it turned out, Descartes and Kant) at sight without a dictionary. That meant Germany for my first summer vacation, to learn the thorny language on my own.

Has the painter not always gone to an art school, or at least to an established master, for instruction? And the composer, the sculptor, the architect? Then why not the writer? Good poets, like good hybrid corn, are both born and made.

Human life is too difficult for people.

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