We Have Become Indifferent To Content, And

There Was A Time When Only Wise Books Were Read Helping Us To Bear Our Pain And Misery. This, After All, Is Not Quite The Same As Leafing Through A Thousand Works Fresh From Psychiatric Clinics. And Yet The World Is Different From What It Seems To Be And We Are Other Than How We See Ourselves In Our Ravings.

Every Poet Depends Upon Generations Who Wrote In His Native Tongue; He Inherits Styles And Forms Elaborated By Those Who Lived Before Him. At The Same Time, Though, He Feels That Those Old Means Of Expression Are Not Adequate To His Own Experience.

The Soul Exceeds Its Circumstances.

Our Memory Is Childish And It Saves Only What We Need.

The Death Of A Man Is Like The Fall Of A Mighty Nation That Had Valiant Armies, Captains, And Prophets, And Wealthy Ports And Ships All Over The Seas.