One Word Is Worth A

Poor Dimitri Shostakovich: In The Soviet Union, He Was Condemned As Being Too Radical; In The West, For Being Too Conservative. He Could Please No One But The Musical Public. He Revenged Himself On Both By Writing A Short Piece Called 'march Of The Soviet Police.'

My Aunt Ida At Age Eighty-three: 'yeah,' She Said, 'i'll Be Dead Pretty Soon. And Frankly, I Don't Give A Damn.'

Poetry -- Even Bad Poetry -- May Be Our Final Hope.

There Is A Deep, Abiding, Unshakable Satisfaction In A Life Of Complete Failure.

I Believe That There Is A Kind Of Poetry, Even A Kind Of Truth, In Simple Fact.