To Live, To Err, To Fall, To

Poetry, Even When Apparently Most Fantastic, Is Always A Revolt Against Artifice, A Revolt, In A Sense, Against Actuality.

A Corpse Is Meat Gone Bad. Well And What's Cheese? Corpse Of Milk.

The Demand That I Make Of My Reader Is That He Should Devote His Whole Life To Reading My Works.

[a Writer Is] A Priest Of Eternal Imagination, Transmuting The Daily Bread Of Experience Into The Radiant Body Of Everliving Life.

Terence O'ryan Heard Him And Straightway Brought Him A Crystal Cup Full Of The Foaming Ebon Ale Which The Noble Twin Brothers Bungiveagh And Bungardilaun Brew Ever In Their Divine Alevats, Cunning As The Sons Of Deathless Leda. For They Garner The Succulent Berries Of The Hop And Mass And Sift And Bruise And Brew Them And They Mix Therewith Sour Juices And Bring The Must To The Sacred Fire And Cease Not Night Or Day From Their Toil, Those Cunning Brothers, Lords Of The Vat.