America Is A Lunatic Asylum.

If A Man Isn't Willing To Take Some Risk For His Opinions, Either His Opinions Are No Good Or He's No Good.

Poetry Is A Very Complex Art.... It Is An Art Of Pure Sound Bound In Through An Art Of Arbitrary And Conventional Symbols.

The Garden En Robe De Parade. - Samain Like A Skein Of Loose Silk Blown Against A Wall She Walks By The Railing Of A Path In Kensington Gardens, And She Is Dying Piece-meal Of A Sort Of Emotional Anaemia. And Round About There Is A Rabble Of The Filthy, Sturdy, Unkillable Infants Of The Very Poor. They Shall Inherit The Earth. In Her Is The End Of Breeding. Her Boredom Is Exquisite And Excessive. She Would Like Some One To Speak To Her, And Is Almost Afraid That I Will Commit That Indiscretion.

I Once Saw A Small Child Go To An Electric Light Switch As Say, Mamma, Can I Open The Light? She Was Using The Age-old Language Of Exploration, The Language Of Art.

It Is Difficult To Write A Paradiso When All The Superficial Indications Are That You Ought To Write An Apocalypse.