The Touch Of Time Does More Than

Poetry Is Man's Rebellion Against Being What He Is.

I Fear You And, Yes, I Love You: And Yet I Cannot Believe. Why Could You Not Let Me Believe, Where So Many Believed? Or Else, Why Could You Not Let Me Deride, As The Remainder Derided So Noisily? O God, Why Could You Not Let Me Have Faith? For You Gave Me No Faith In Anything, Not Even In Nothingness. It Was Not Fair.

In What Else, Pray, Does Man Differ From The Other Animals Except In That He Is Used By Words?

For Although This Was A Very Heroic War, With A Parade Of Every Sort Of High Moral Principle, And With The Most Sonorous Language Employed Upon Both Sides, It Somehow Failed To Bring About Either The Reformation Or The Ruin Of Humankind: And After The Conclusion Of The Murdering And General Breakage, The World Went On Pretty Much As It Has Done After All Other Wars, With A Vague Notion That A Deal Of Time And Effort Had Been Unprofitably Invested, And A Conviction That It Would Be Inglorious To Say So.

Every Notion That Any Man, Dead, Living, Or Unborn, Might Form As To The Universe Will Necessarily Prove Wrong