Everything Can Change, But Not

I Could Distinguish The Shape Of Her Bosom, Her Arms, Her Thighs, Just As I Remember Them Now, Just As Now, When The Moon Has Become That Flat, Remote Circle, I Still Look For Her As Soon As The First Sliver Appears In The Sky, And The More It Waxes, The More Clearly I Imagine I Can See Her, Her Or Something Of Her, But Only Her, In A Hundred, A Thousand Different Vistas, She Who Makes The Moon The Moon And, Whenever She Is Full, Sets The Dogs To Howling All Night Long, And Me With Them.

In An Age When Other Fantastically Speedy, Widespread Media Are Triumphing, And Running The Risk Of Flattening All Communication Onto A Single, Homogenous Surface, The Function Of Literature Is Communication Between Things That Are Different Simply Because They Are Different, Not Blunting But Even Sharpening The Differences Between Them, Following The True Bent Of Written Language.

For The Man Who Thought He Was Man There Is No Salvation.

The Soul Is Often In The Surface, And The Importance Of 'depth' Is Overestimated.

They Knew Each Other. He Knew Her And So Himself, For In Truth He Had Never Known Himself. And She Knew Him And So Herself, For Although She Had Always Known Herself She Had Never Been Able To Recognize It Until Now.