Statues To Great Men Are Made Of

In Exiling Myself I Am Not Exiling A Monster, But A Man Whom Society Will Not Allow To Live, Since It Considers One Of The Mysterious Cogs In God's Masterpiece To Be A Mistake.

The Runner Stopped Dead, Lost His Balance, Froze In One Of Those Violent Attitudes In Which The Photographers Petrify Living Reality.

To Be Audacious With Tact, You Have To Know To What Point You Can Go Too Far.

I Want The Kind Of Readers Who Remain Children At Any Cost. I Can Tell Them At A Glance: Loyalty To That First Enchantment Guards Better Than Any Cosmetic; Than Any Diet, Against The Insults Of Age. But Alas For Such Readers, Who Would Huddle Safe And Sound In The Asylum Of Their Credulous Enchantment As If In The Womb-our Enervating Century Offends Them By Its Chaos, Its Fidgets Of Light And Space, The Host Of Its Excuses For Dividing , For Rending Oneself From Others And From Oneself.

Poetry Is A Religion Without Hope. The Poet Exhausts Himself In Its Service, Knowing That, In The Long Run, A Masterpiece Is Nothing But The Performance Of A Trained Dog On Very Shaky Ground.