Through The Unknown, We'll Find The New

The Poet Enjoys The Incomparable Privilege Of Being Able To Be Himself And Others, As He Wishes.

There Can Be No Progress-real, Moral Prgress-except In The Individual And By The Individual Himself.

It Is At Despair At Not Being Able To Be Noble And Beautiful By Natural Means That We Have Made Up Our Faces So Strangely.

The Immense Profundity Of Thought In Vulgar Locutions, Like Holes Dug By Generations Of Ants.

A Sweetheart Is A Bottle Of Wine, A Wife Is A Wine Bottle.