What The Public Criticizes In

Youth Can Only Assert Itself Through The Conviction That Its Ventures Surpass All Others And Resemble Nothing.

I Have A Piece Of Great And Sad News To Tell You: I Am Dead.

Vivre Est Une Chute Horizontale. Life Is A Horizontal Fall.

I Want The Kind Of Readers Who Remain Children At Any Cost. I Can Tell Them At A Glance: Loyalty To That First Enchantment Guards Better Than Any Cosmetic; Than Any Diet, Against The Insults Of Age. But Alas For Such Readers, Who Would Huddle Safe And Sound In The Asylum Of Their Credulous Enchantment As If In The Womb-our Enervating Century Offends Them By Its Chaos, Its Fidgets Of Light And Space, The Host Of Its Excuses For Dividing , For Rending Oneself From Others And From Oneself.

Such Is The Role Of Poetry. It Unveils, In The Strict Sense Of The Word. It Lays Bare, Under A Light Which Shakes Off Torpor, The Surprising Things Which Surround Us And Which Our Senses Record Mechanically.