I Grew Up In The Sort Of

For A Writer Only One Form Of Patriotism Exists: His Attitude Toward Language.

If I Can Get Somewhere, I'm All Right. If Not, I'm Miserable.

In America, A Metrical Poem Is Likely To Conjure Up The Idea Of The Sort Of Poet Who Wears Ties And Lunches At The Faculty Club. In Russia It Suggests The Moral Force Of An Art Practiced Against The Greatest Personal Odds, As A Discipline, Solitary And Intense.

The Delirium And Horror Of The East. The Dusty Catastrophe Of Asia. Green Only On The Banner Of The Prophet. Nothing Grows Here Except Mustaches.

The Eye Identifies Itself Not With The Body It Belongs To But With The Object Of Its Attention.