People Are Inexterminable - Like

I Alone Of English Writers Have Consciously Set Myself To Make Music Out Of What I May Call The Sound Of Sense.

You Know How Cunningly Mankind Is Planned: We Have One Loving And One Hating Hand. The Loving's Made To Hold Each Other Like, While With The Hating Other Hand We Strike.

People Who Read Me Seem To Be Divided Into Four Groups: Twenty-five Percent Like Me For The Right Reasons; Twenty-five Percent Like Me For The Wrong Reasons; Twenty-five Percent Hate Me For The Wrong Reasons; Twenty-five Percent Hate Me For The Right Reasons. It's That Last Twenty-five Percent That Worries Me.

But These Are Flowers That Fly And All But Sing: And Now From Having Ridden Out Desire They Lie Closed Over In The Wind And Cling Where Wheels Have Freshly Sliced The April Mire.

The Only Way Out Is Through.