Some Editors Are Failed Writers, But So

Art Never Improves, But... The Material Of Art Is Never Quite The Same.

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

Artistic Inevitability Lies In The Complete Adequacy Of The External To The Emotion.

The Dream Crossed Twilight Between Birth And Dying.

[on The Waste Land:] Various Critics Have Done Me The Honor To Interpret The Poem In Terms Of Criticism Of The Contemporary World, Have Considered It, Indeed, As An Important Bit Of Social Criticism. To Me It Was Only The Relief Of A Personal And Wholly Insignificant Grouse Against Life; It Is Just A Piece Of Rhythmical Grumbling.