We Want To Be Poets

God Is A Gross Answer, An Indelicacy Against Us Thinkers- At Bottom Merely A Gross Prohibition For Us: You Shall Not Think!

My Time Has Not Yet Come Either; Some Are Born Posthumously.

Posthumous Men-myself, For Example-are Not As Well Understood As Timely Ones, But We Are Listened To Better. More Precisely: We Are Never Understood-hence Our Authority.

We Often Refuse To Accept An Idea Merely Because The Tone Of Voice In Which It Has Been Expressed Is Unsympathetic To Us.

Books For All The World Are Always Foul-smelling Books: The Smell Of Small People Clings To Them.