How Delightful To Find A Friend In

Cherish Your Human Connections: Your Relationships With Friends And Family. Even Your Super Weirdo Creep Cousin.

If A Poet Has Any Obligation Toward Society, It Is To Write Well. Being In The Minority, He Has No Other Choice. Failing This Duty, He Sinks Into Oblivion. Society, On The Other Hand, Has No Obligation Toward The Poet. A Majority By Definition, Society Thinks Of Itself As Having Other Options Than Reading Verses, No Matter How Well Written. Its Failure To Do So Results In Its Sinking To That Level Of Locution At Which Society Falls Easy Prey To A Demagogue Or A Tyrant. This Is Society's Own Equivalent Of Oblivion.

It's Rather An Exhilarating Feeling. It's 6 Or 7 When You Get Up And Go Out Into The Fields Wearing Your Wellingtons Or High Boots. You Know That At This Very Hour Half The Nation Does The Same Thing, Which Gives You, With The Benefit Of Hindsight, A Satisfaction In Doing Those Things, Too, A Knowledge, A Sense Of The Nation. I Was A City Boy Until Then.

Persecution Mania Is Still Around. In Your Writing, In Your Exchanges With People, Meeting People Who Are In Russian Affairs, Russian Literature, Etcetera.

Out Of Dostoevsky: Kafka. Out Of Tolstoy: Margaret Mitchell. (in Conversation, Explaining His Dislike For Tolstoy)