I'll Lie Here And Learn How, Over

The Intellectual Is A Middle-class Product; If He Is Not Born Into The Class He Must Soon Insert Himself Into It, In Order To Exist. He Is The Fine Nervous Flower Of The Bourgeoisie.

The Poem Is Always The Last Resort. In It The Poet Makes A World In Little, And Finds Peace, Even Though, Under Complete Focused Emotion, The Evocation Be Far More Bitter Than Reality, Or Far More Lovely.

Your Work Is Carved Out Of Agony As A Statue Is Carved Out Of Marble.

The Initial Mystery That Attends Any Journey Is: How Did The Traveler Reach His Starting Point In The First Place?

But Childhood Prolonged, Cannot Remain A Fairyland. It Becomes A Hell.