Words Are A Commodity In Which There

Blessed Is The Satirist; And Blessed The Ironist; Blessed The Witty Scoffer, And Blessed The Sentimentalist; For Each, Having Seen One Spoke Of The Wheel, Thinks To Have Seen All, And Is Content.

If We Discovered That We Only Had Five Minutes Left To Say All That We Wanted To Say, Every Telephone Booth Would Be Occupied By People Calling Other People To Stammer That They Loved Them.

Poetry Comes With Anger, Hunger And Dismay; It Does Not Often Visit Groups Of Citizens Sitting Down To Be Literary Together, And Would Appal Them If It Did.

If You Have To Keep Reminding Yourself Of A Thing, Perhaps It Isn't So.

When You Sell A Man A Book, You Don't Sell Him 12 Ounces Of Paper And Ink And Glue - You Sell Him A Whole New Life.