In This World Goodness Is Destined To

Nobody But A Southerner Knows The Wrenching Rinsing Sadness Of The Cities Of The North.

There Is No Pain On This Earth Like Seeing The Same Woman Look At Another Man The Way She Once Looked At You.

What Needs To Be Discharged Is The Intolerable Tenderness Of The Past, The Past Gone And Grieved Over And Never Made Sense Of. Music Ransoms Us From The Past, Declares An Amnesty, Brackets And Sets Aside The Old Puzzles. Sing A New Song. Start A New Life, Get A Girl, Look Into Her Shadowy Eyes, Smile.

What Is The Nature Of The Search? You Ask. Really It Is Very Simple, At Least For A Fellow Like Me; So Simple That It Is Easily Overlooked. The Search Is What Anyone Would Undertake If He Were Not Sunk In The Everydayness Of His Own Life. This Morning, For Example, I Felt As If I Had Come To Myself On A Strange Island.

If Poets Often Commit Suicide, It Is Not Because Their Poems Are Bad But Because They Are Good. Whoever Heard Of A Bad Poet Committing Suicide? The Reader Is Only A Little Better Off. The Exhilaration Of A Good Poem Lasts Twenty Minutes, An Hour At Most. Unlike The Scientist, The Artist Has Reentry Problems That Are Frequent And Catastrophic.