One Writes Because One Has A Burning

Originality Is... A By-product Of Sincerity.

Any Writer Overwhelmingly Honest About Pleasing Himself Is Almost Sure To Please Others.

I See No Reason For Calling My Work Poetry Except That There Is No Other Category In Which To Put It.

The Sweet Air Coming Into Your House On A Fine Day, From Water Etched With Waves As Formal As The Scales On A Fish.

We Are What We Were At Birth, And Each Trait Has Remained In Conformity With Earth's And With Heaven's Logic: Be The Devil's Tool, Resort To Black Magic, None Can Diverge From The Ends Which Heaven Foreordained.