And Voices Singing Out Of Empty Cisterns

At The Still Point Of The Turning World. Neither Flesh Nor Fleshless; Neither From Nor Towards; At The Still Point, There The Dance Is.

So First, Your Memory I'll Jog, And Say: A Cat Is Not A Dog

I Grow Old … I Grow Old … I Shall Wear The Bottoms Of My Trousers Rolled.

For He Will Do As He Do Do And There's No Doing Anything About It!

Probably, Indeed, The Larger Part Of The Labor Of An Author Composing His Work Is Critical Labor; The Labor Of Sifting, Combining, Constructing, Expunging, Correcting, Testing. This Frightful Toil Is As Much Critical As Creative.