Your Work Is Carved Out Of Agony

No More Pronouncements On Lousy Verse. No More Hidden Competition. No More Struggling Not To Be A Square.

The Intellectual Is A Middle-class Product; If He Is Not Born Into The Class He Must Soon Insert Himself Into It, In Order To Exist. He Is The Fine Nervous Flower Of The Bourgeoisie.

It Is Almost Impossible For The Poetess, Once Laurelled, To Take Off The Crown For Good Or To Reject Values And Taste Of Those Who Tender It.

At Midnight Tears Run Into Your Ears.

I Cannot Believe That The Inscrutable Universe Turns On An Axis Of Suffering; Surely The Strange Beauty Of The World Must Somewhere Rest On Pure Joy!