[history Is] That Terrible Mill In Which

I Am One Of Those Unhappy Persons Who Inspire Bores To The Greatest Flights Of Art.

By The Time I Was Eleven Years Old, I Had Been Taught That Nature, Far From Abhorring A Vacuum, Positively Adores It.

I May Say That I Think Greed About Poetry Is The Only Permissible Greed - It Is, Indeed, Unavoidable.

The Ghost Of The Heart Of Manred Cain And The More Murderous Brain Of Man, Still Redder Nero That Conceived The Death Of His Mother Earth, And Tore Her Womb, To Know The Place Where He Was Conceived.

The Public Will Believe Anything, So Long As It Is Not Founded On Truth.