We're All Time's Captives, Hostages To Eternity.

During The Last Years Of Mayakovski's Life, When All Poetry Had Ceased To Exist . . . Literature Had Stopped.

In This Era Of World Wars, In This Atomic Age, Values Have Changed. We Have Learned That We Are Guests Of Existence, Travelers Between Two Stations. We Must Discover Security Within Ourselves.

No Bad Man Can Be A Good Poet.

Poetry Is A Rich, Full-bodied Whistle, Cracked Ice Crunching In Pails, The Night That Numbs The Leaf, The Duel Of Two Nightingales, The Sweet Pea That Has Run Wild, Creation's Tears In Shoulder Blades.

A Literary Creation Can Appeal To Us In All Sorts Of Ways-by Its Theme, Subject, Situations, Characters. But Above All It Appeals To Us By The Presence In It Of Art. It Is The Presence Of Art In Crime And Punishment That Moves Us Deeply Rather Than The Story Of Raskolnikov's Crime.