It Is The Privilege Of Those Who

It Is Curious How Any Making Of Order Makes One Feel Mentally Ordered, Ordered Inside.

Real Joy Is Becoming Exceedingly Rare Among Artists Of Any Kind. And I Have An Idea That Those Who Can And Do Communicate It Are Always People Who Have Had A Hard Time. Then The Joy Has No Smugness Or Self-righteousness In It, Is Inclusive Not Exclusive, And Comes Close To Prayer.

One Could Go On Revising A Prose Page Forever Whereas There Is A Point In A Poem When One Knows It Is Done Forever.

A House That Does Not Have One Warm, Comfy Chair In It Is Soulless.

Time Unbounded Is Hard To Handle.