Evil I Had Never Found Satisfactorily Placeable

Much Of The Magical Effect That Poetry Gives Of Rendering Everything It Touches Pellucid Comes From The Necessity Of Compression That It Imposes. The Impossibility Of Pausing In Poetry As Long As May Be Needed To Make Sense Clear Causes Many A Set Of Words Actually Deficient In Linguistic Workmanship To Pass For An Eloquent Brevity.

We Wait, All, For A Story Of Us That Shall Reach To Where We Are. We Listen For Our Own Speaking; And We Hear Much That Seems Our Speaking, Yet Makes Us Strange To Ourselves.

Conversation Succeeds Conversation, Until There's Nothing Left To Talk About Except Truth, The Perennial Monologue, And No Talker To Dispute It But Itself.

The Sciences That Purport To Treat Of Human Things -- The New Scientific Storyings Of The Social, The Political, The Racial Or Ethnic, And The Psychic, Nature Of Human Beings -- Treat Not Of Human Things But Mere Things, Things That Make Up The Physical, Or Circumstantial, Content Of Human Life But Are Not Of The Stuff Of Humanity, Have Not The Human Essence In Them.

Every Thought Sounds Like A Footfall, Till A Thought Like A Boot Kicks Down The Wall.