...to Be Paid For One's Joy Is

I've Always Been Terribly Uninterested In Criticism. And One Of The Reasons, I Just Thought Recently, Is That You Know There Are Various Schools Of Criticism That Will Compete, And One Will Supercede The Other.

We Launch Our Souls From The Cannons Of Art And Discipline, And On Any One Night, Hovering Over The Chimney Tops Of Europe, Halfway To The Stars, There Are Armies Of Brightly Spinning Spirits That Have Risen Like Fireworks, Tethered To The Souls Of Those Men And Women Who, By Reflection, Mortification, And Devotion, Effortlessly Outdazzle Kings.

A Lot Of People Hate Heroes. I Was Criticized For Portraying People Who Are Brave, Honest, Loving, Intelligent. That Was Called Weak And Sentimental. People Who Dismiss All Real Emotion As Sentimentality Are Cowards. They’re Afraid To Commit Themselves, And So They Remain ‘cool’ For The Rest Of Their Lives, Until They’re Dead—then They’re Really Cool.

Heavy Blizzards Start As A Gentle And Persistent Snow.

Of Course, You Would Have To Be Insane To Hope Your Child Grows Up To Be A Playwright Or Poet. Given The Odds, You Would Have To Be Quite Cavalier About Your Children's Future.