There Is No Reason Why The Same

Poetry Is A Language Pared Down To Its Essentials.

Where The Dead Walked And The Living Were Made Of Cardboard.

Seems Fairly Clear That You Fix A Breed By Limiting The Amount Of Alien Infiltration. You Make A Race By Homogeneity And By Avoiding Inbreeding.... No Argument Has Ever Been Sprouted Against It. You Like It In Dogs And Horses.

The Man Of Understanding Can No More Sit Quiet And Resigned While His Country Lets Its Literature Decay, And Lets Good Writing Meet With Contempt, Than A Good Doctor Could Sit Quiet And Contented While Some Ignorant Child Was Infecting Itself With Tuberculosis Under The Impression That It Was Merely Eating Jam Tarts.

The Critic Who Doesn't Make A Personal Statement, In Remeasurements He Himself Has Made, Is Merely An Unreliable Critic. He Is Not A Measurer But A Repeater Of Other Men's Results. Krino, To Pick Out For Oneself, To Choose. That's What The Word Means.