Death: The Anaesthetic From Which None Come

It Is Fatal To Decide, Intellectually, What Good Poetry Is Because You Are Then In Honour Bound To Try To Write It, Instead Of The Poems That Only You Can Write.

To Put One Brick Upon Another, Add A Third, And Then A Fourth, Leaves No Time To Wonder Whether What You Do Has Any Worth.

Seriously, I Think It Is A Grave Fault In Life That So Much Time Is Wasted In Social Matters, Because It Not Only Takes Up Time When You Might Be Doing Individual Private Things, But It Prevents You Storing Up The Psychic Energy That Can Then Be Released To Create Art Or Whatever It Is. It's Terrible The Way We Scotch Silence & Solitude At Every Turn, Quite Suicidal. I Can't See How To Avoid It, Without Being Very Rich Or Very Unpopular, & It Does Worry Me, For Time Is Slipping By , And Nothing Is Done. It Isn't As If Anything Was Gained By This Social Frivolity, It Isn't: It's Just A Waste.

Only In Books The Flat And Final Happens, Only In Dreams We Meet And Interlock.

The Breath That Sharpens Life Is Life Itself.