Chess Is A Cold Bath For The

Robert Creely's Poems Have Two Main Characteristics. 1) They Are Short; 2) They Are Not Short Enough.

The Pressure On Language To Deteriorate Does Not Come Merely From Below, From The "democratic" Lev-elers. It Comes Also From Above, From The Fancy Jar-gonmongers, Idle Game Players, Fashionable Coteries For Second-rate Intellectuals.

If You Love Language, It Will Love You Back.

The Ultimate Evil Is The Weakness, Cowardice, That Is One Of The Constituents Of So Much Human Nature. When, Rarely, Unalloyed Nobility Does Occur, Its Chances Of Prevailing Are Slim. Yet It Exists, And Its Mere Existence Is Reason Enough For Not Wiping The Name Of Mankind Off The Slate.

Although Most Informed Balletomanes Would Place Artistry Above Technique, Artistry Without A Strong Technique Is A Flaccid, Bloodless Thing Indeed, Whereas Technique Without Much Artistry Can Still Dazzle Us In The Manner Of The Circus Or Sports Arena Translated To A Higher Plane. Though The Perfect Blend Of The Two Elements Is The Consummation Devoutly To Be Wished, The Real Enemy Of Good Ballet Is Not The Slight Preponderance Of One Or The Other But The Prevalence Of Pantomime--the Turning Of Dance Into Second-rate Theater.