The End Is Where We Start From.

A Cold Coming We Had Of It, Just The Worst Time Of The Year For A Journey, And Such A Long Journey: The Ways Deep And The Weather Sharp, The Very Dead Of Winter.

So The Lover Must Struggle For Words.

Here Were Decent Godless People; Their Only Monument The Asphalt Road And A Thousand Lost Golf Balls.

The Purpose Of Literature Is To Turn Blood Into Ink.

Poetry Is Not An Assertion Of Truth, But The Making Of That Truth More Fully Real To Us.