The Initial Mystery That Attends Any Journey

The Intellectual Is A Middle-class Product; If He Is Not Born Into The Class He Must Soon Insert Himself Into It, In Order To Exist. He Is The Fine Nervous Flower Of The Bourgeoisie.

What We Suffer, What We Endure, What We Muff, What We Kill, What We Miss, What We Are Guilty Of, Is Done By Us, As Individuals, In Private.

O Remember In Your Narrowing Dark Hours That More Things Move Than Blood In The Heart.

The Poem Is Always The Last Resort. In It The Poet Makes A World In Little, And Finds Peace, Even Though, Under Complete Focused Emotion, The Evocation Be Far More Bitter Than Reality, Or Far More Lovely.

The Art Of One Period Cannot Be Approached Through The Attitudes (emotional Or Intellectual) Of Another.