Of All The Objects Of Hatred, A

Not Philosophy, After All, Not Humanity, Just Sheer Joyous Power Of Song, Is The Primal Thing In Poetry.

Fate Weaves The Darkness, Which Is Perhaps Why She Weaves So Badly.

Somehow, Our Sense Of Justice Never Turns In Its Sleep Till Long After The Sense Of Injustice In Others Has Been Thoroughly Aroused.

There Is In The Human Race Some Dark Spirit Of Recalcitrance, Always Pulling Us In The Direction Contrary To That In Which We Are Reasonably Expected To Go.

Incongruity Is The Mainspring Of Laughter.