Our Quarrels With The World Are Like

It Is Better To Entertain An Idea Than To Take Home To Live With You For The Rest Of Your Life.

When You Begin To Read A Poem You Are Entering A Foreign Country Whose Laws And Language And Life Are A Kind Of Translation Of Your Own; But To Accept It Because Its Stews Taste Exactly Like Your Old Mother's Hash, Or To Reject It Because The Owl-headed Goddess Of Wisdom In Its Temple Is Fatter Than The Statue Of Liberty, Is An Equal Mark Of That Want Of Imagination, That Inaccessibility To Experience, Of Which Each Of Us Who Dies A Natural Death Will Die.

More And More People Think Of The Critic As An Indispensable Middle Man Between Writer And Reader, And Would No More Read A Book Alone, If They Could Help It, Than Have A Baby Alone.

To Americans, English Manners Are Far More Frightening Than None At All.

In Heaven All Reviews Will Be Favorable; Here On Earth, The Publisher Realizes, Plausibility Demands An Occasional Bad One, Some Convincing Lump In All That Leaven, And He Accepts It Somewhat As A Theologian Accepts Evil.