Well, We've Been Lucky Devils Both And

The Award Of A Pure Gold Medal For Poetry Would Flatter The Recipient Unduly: No Poem Ever Attains Such Carat Purity.

I Revise The Manuscript Till I Can't Read It Any Longer, Then I Get Somebody To Type It. Then I Revise The Typing. Then It's Retyped Again. Then There's A Third Typing, Which Is The Final One. Nothing Should Then Remain That Offends The Eye.

Poetry Began In The Matriarchal Age, And Derives Its Magic From The Moon, Not From The Sun. No Poet Can Hope To Understand The Nature Of Poetry Unless He Has Had A Vision Of The Naked King Crucified To The Lopped Oak, And Watched The Dancers, Red-eyed From The Acrid Smoke Of The Sacrificial Fires, Stamping Out The Measure Of The Dance, Their Bodies Bent Uncouthly Forward, With A Monotonous Chant Of "kill! Kill! Kill!" And "blood! Blood! Blood!

The Poet's First Rule Must Be Never To Bore His Readers; And His Best Way Of Keeping This Rule Is Never To Bore Himself-which, Of Course, Means To Write Only When He Has Something Urgent To Say.

What We Now Call "finance" Is, I Hold, An Intellectual Perversion Of What Began As Warm Human Love.