I Don't Think Auden Liked My Poetry

But One Wants The Idea Of Death, You Know, As Something Large And Unknowable, Something That Allows A Person To Stretch Himself Out. Especially One Wants It If One Is Tired. Or Perhaps What One Wants Is Simply A Release From Sensation, From All Consciousness For Ever.

If There Wasn't Death, I Think You Couldn't Go On.

Death's Not A Separation Or Alteration Or Parting; It's Just A One-handled Door.

This Englishwoman Is So Refined, She Has No Bosom And No Behind.

See The Cat At Love, Rolling With Its Sweetheart, Up And Over, With Shriek And Moan. But If A Person Comes By, They Break Away, Sit Separate Upon A Fence Washing Their Faces - And Might Never Have Met At All.