The Summer Of 1943 At Exeter Was

Young People In My Generation Were Sort Of In Lockstep, And It Wasn't Just The '40s, Either. In The '30s And In The '50s It Was The Same. No One Ever Dropped Out Unless He Got Sick Or Got Kicked Out.

The Summer Of 1943 At Exeter Was As Happy A Time As I Ever Had In My Life.

It Was Hard To Remember In The Heavy And Sensual Clarity Of These Mornings; I Forgot Whom I Hated And Who Hated Me. I Wanted To Break Out Crying From Stabs Of Hopeless Joy, Or Intolerable Promise, Or Because These Mornings Were Too Full Of Beauty For Me, Because I Knew Of Too Much Hate To Be Contained In A World Like This.

Everything Has To Evolve Or Else It Perishes.

Sarcasm Is The Protest Of The Weak.