Justice Itself Tends To Be Corrupted By

The Good Poet Welds His Theft Into A Whole Of Feeling Which Is Unique, Utterly Different From That From Which It Was Torn; The Bad Poet Throws It Into Something Which Has No Cohesion.

Footfalls Echo In The Memory, Down The Passage We Did Not Take, Towards The Door We Never Opened, Into The Rose Garden.

Art Serves Us Best Precisely At That Point Where It Can Shift Our Sense Of What Is Possible, When We Know More Than We Knew Before, When We Feel We Have - By Some Manner Of A Leap - Encountered The Truth. That, By The Logic Of Art, Is Always Worth The Pain.

Today, You're Halfway To 100! Here's To Optimism, Whether It Is Realistic Or Not. Happy 50th Birthday!

My Life Is Light, Waiting For The Death Wind, Like A Feather On The Back Of My Hand.