I Am Often Asked Why I Write,

Its A Bit Mad. Too Bad, I Mean, That Getting To Know Each Just For A Fleeting Second Must Be Replaced By Unperfect Knowledge Of The Featureless Whole Like Some Pocket History Of The World, So General As To Constitute A Sob Or Wail

If You Need A Certain Vitality You Can Only Supply It Yourself, Or There Comes A Point, Anyway, When No One's Actions But Your Own Seem Dramatically Convincing And Justifiable In The Plot That The Number Of Your Days Concocts.

I Don't Look On Poetry As Closed Works. I Feel They're Going On All The Time In My Head And I Occasionally Snip Off A Length.

A Perfect Example Of The New Republic's Urge To Drape Itself With The Togas Of Classical Respectability.

Sometimes A Musical Phrase Would Perfectly Sum Up The Mood Of A Moment. One Of Those Lovelorn Sonatas For Wind Instruments Was Riding Past On A Solemn White Horse. Everybody Wondered Who The New Arrival Was.