How Our Story Has Been Divided Up

Appearances Do Not Deceive If There Are Enough Of Them.

The End Of Poetry Is Not To Create A Physical Condition Which Shall Give Pleasure To The Mind... The End Of Poetry Is Not An After-effect, Not A Pleasurable Memory Of Itself, But An Immediate, Constant And Even Unpleasant Insistence Upon Itself.

She [venison] Had Never Travelled And So Could Invent All Kinds Of Strange Places Without Being Limited, As Travelled People Are, By Knowledge Of Certain Places Only.

The Rhythmic Pattern Of The Poem, Which Forces Continuity Of Attention - Incites A Pleasurable Compulsion To 'follow' - Is Either A Tried Metrical Suasion-contrivance Or A Specially Invented Pattern Of Physical Insistences, Equally, If Not More, Binding In Its Effect On The Reader. From A Straight Linguistic Point Of View, There Is Room For Wonder If There Is Not Latent Vice In This Environment In Which Pleasurable Physically-compelled Responses, Produced By Incidents Of Poetic Utterance, Are Identified With The Good.

If What You Write Is True, It Will Not Be So Because Of What You Are As A Writer But Because Of What You Are As A Being. There Can Be No Literary Equivalent To Truth.