Good Poets Borrow, Great Poets Steal

All Time Is Eternal, Moving Inexorably Toward An End Which We Believe Is A Result Of Our Actions, But Over Which Our Control Is Mere Illusion.

What A Poem Means Is As Much What It Means To Others As What It Means To The Author; And Indeed, In The Course Of Time A Poet May Become Merely Reader In Respect To His Own Works, Forgetting His Original Meaning.

Most Contemporary Novels Are Not Really "written." They Obtain What Reality They Have Largely From An Accurate Rendering Of The Noises That Human Beings Currently Make In Their Daily Simple Needs Of Communication; And What Part Of A Novel Is Not Composed Of These Noises Consists Of A Prose Which Is No More Alive Than That Of A Competent Newspaper Writer Or Government Official. A Prose That Is Altogether Alive Demands Something Of The Reader That The Ordinary Novel-reader Is Not Prepared To Give.

Gin And Drugs, Dear Lady, Gin And Drugs.

Because I Know That Time Is Always Time And Place Is Always Place And Only Place. And What Is Actual Is Actual Only For One Time. And Only For One Place. I Rejoice That Things Are As They Are.