When Words Cease To Cling Close To

Artists Are The Antennae Of The Race.

Quiet This Metal! Let The Manes Put Off Their Terror, Let Them Put Off Their Aqueous Bodies With Fire. Let Them Assume The Milk-white Bodies Of Agate. Let Them Draw Together The Bones Of The Metal.

Rhythm Must Have Meaning.

The Art Of Letters Will Come To An End Before A.d. 2000. I Shall Survive As A Curiosity.

My Pawing Over The Ancients And Semi-ancients Has Been One Struggle To Find Out What Has Been Done, Once And For All, Better Than It Can Ever Be Done Again, And To Find Out What Remains For Us To Do, And Plenty Does Remain, For If We Still Feel The Same Emotions As Those Who Launched A Thousand Ships, It Is Quite Certain That We Came On These Feelings Differently, Through Different Nuances, By Different Intellectual Gradations. Each Age Has Its Own Abounding Gifts Yet Only Some Ages Transmute Them Into Matters Of Duration.