May You Be Ordinary, As The Poet

To Own A Certain Book - And To Choose It Without Help - Is To Define Yourself.

Those Were The Days In This Country Where H. G. Wells, Bernard Shaw And Conan Doyle Could Have Influence, And Thats Gone, Thats True. But I Dont Think We Have Less Influence In The Hearts And Minds Of Readers. I Think, If Anything, We Have Just As Much, If Not More.

One Of The Troubles Is This: The Heart Isn't Heart-shaped.

Sometimes You Find The Panel, But It Doesn’t Open; Sometimes It Opens, And Your Gaze Meets Nothing But A Mouse Skeleton. But At Least You’ve Looked. That’s The Real Distinction Between People: Not Between Those Who Have Secrets And Those Who Don’t, But Between Those Who Want To Know Everything And Those Who Don’t. This Search Is A Sign Of Love I Maintain.

And If You Had No Tongue, No Celebrating Language, You’d Do This: Cross Your Hands At The Wrist With Palms Facing Towards You; Place Your Crossed Wrists Over Your Heart (the Middle Of Your Chest, Anyway); Then Move Your Hands Outwards A Short Distance, And Open Them Towards The Object Of Your Love. It’s Just As Eloquent As Speech.