Once Form Has Been Smashed,

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.

O Fortunate Bride, Who Never Again Will Become Elated After Childbirth! O Lucky Older Wife, Who Has Been Cured Of Feeling Unwanted!

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

Intellectuals Range Through The Finest Gradations Of Kind And Quality: From Those Who Are Merely Educated Neurotics, Usually With Strong Hidden Reactionary Tendencies, Through Mediocrities Of All Kinds, To Men Of Real Brains And Sensibility, More Or Less Stiffened Into Various Respectabilities Or Substitutes For Respectability. The Number Of Ignorant Specialists Is Large. The Number Of Hysterics And Compulsives Is Also Large.

... Politics Are Nothing But Sand And Gravel: It Is Art And Life That Feed Us Until We Die. Everything Else Is Ambition, Hysteria Or Hatred.