Art Is Anything People Do With Distinction.

All The Ills Of Mankind Spring From Belonging To A Race, A Nation, A City, A Group Of Some Kind. The Ideal Would Be To Belong To None, And To Care For Allbut Who Is Capable Of That?

In A Poem, The Words Happen; They Just Come. I Let Them. Otherwise, I Wouldn't Write. To Interfere With What Is Happening Is To Distort The Poem. Just A Very Small Degree Of Intelligence And Supervision Is Necessary. Very Tactful. Any Revision Later That Violates The Text As It Came, That Begins Rewriting The Words, Is Fake.

There Is No Original Sin. It's All Been Done Before.

There Are Two Kinds Of People; Those Who Are Always Well And Those Who Are Always Sick. Most Of The Evils Of The World Come From The First Sort And Most Of The Achievement From The Second.

The Twentieth Century Had A Wonderful Capacity For Seeing Nothing As The Sum Of Everything.