We Died Like Aunts Of Pets Or

Most Of The People In A War Never Fight For Even A Minute Though They Bear For Years And Die Forever. They Do Not Fight, But Only Starve, Only Suffer, Only Die: The Sum Of All This Passive Misery Is That Great Activity, War.

And The World Said, Child, You Will Not Be Missed. You Are Cheaper Than A Wrench, Your Back Is A Road; Your Death Is A Table In A Book. You Had Our Wit, Our Heart Was Sealed To You: Man Is The Judgment Of The World.

Poetry Is A Bad Medium For Philosophy. Everything In The Philosophical Poem Has To Satisfy Irreconcilable Requirements: For Instance, The Last Demand That We Should Make Of Philosophy (that It Be Interesting) Is The First We Make Of A Poem; The Philosophical Poet Has An Elevated And Methodical, But Forlorn And Absurd Air As He Works Away At His Flying Tank, His Sewing-machine That Also Plays The Piano.

Christina Stead Has A Chinese Say, "our Old Age Is Perhaps Life's Decision About Us" Or, Worse, The Decision We Have Made About Ourselves Without Ever Realizing We Were Making It.

We Can't Tell Our Life From Our Wish