I Sit In The Dark. And It

Because Every Book Of Art, Be It A Poem Or A Cupola, Is Understandably A Self-portrait Of Its Author, We Won't Strain Ourselves Too Hard Trying To Distinguish Between The Author's Persona And The Poem's Lyrical Hero. As A Rule, Such Distinctions Are Quite Meaningless, If Only Because A Lyrical Hero Is Invariably An Author's Self-projection.

Poetry Is What Is Gained In Translation.

I Had This Fantasy Of Becoming A Neurosurgeon. You Know, The Normal Jewish Boy Fantasy, But I Wanted To Be A Neurosurgeon For Some Reason. So I Started In This Unpleasant Way. I Was An Assistant To The Coroner, Opening Up Corpses, Taking The Innards Out, Opening Skulls, Taking The Brains Out.

Boredom Is Your Window On The Properties Of Time That One Tends To Ignore To The Likely Peril Of One's Mental Equilibrium. It Is Your Window On Time's Infinity. Once This Window Opens, Don't Try To Shut It; On The Contrary, Throw It Wide Open.

Snobbery? But It's Only A Form Of Despair.