For A Time They Confronted Each Other

There Was No Mistaking, Even In The Uncertain Light, The Hand, Half Crabbed, Half Generous, And Wholly Drunken, Of The Consul Himself, The Greek E's, The Flying Buttresses Of D's, The T's Like Lonely Wayside Crosses Save Where They Crucified An Entire Word.

Only Against Death Does Man Cry Out In Vain.

How Shall The Murdered Man Convince His Assassin He Will Not Haunt Him.

Perhaps His Tragedy Is That He Is The One Normal Writer Left On Earth And It Is This That Adds To His Isolation And So To His Sense Of Guilt.

For A Time They Confronted Each Other Like Two Mute Unspeaking Forts.