And I Am In Retirement From Love.

I Am Firmly Of The Opinion That People Who Can’t Speak Have Nothing To Say. It’s One More Thing We Do To The Poor, The Deprived: Cut Out Their Tongues … Allow Them A Language As Lousy As Their Life

Of Course There Is Enough To Stir Our Wonder Anywhere; There's Enough To Love, Anywhere, If One Is Strong Enough, If One Is Diligent Enough, If One Is Perceptive, Patient, Kind Enough -- Whatever It Takes.

Works Of Art Are Meant To Be Lived With And Loved, And If We Try To Understand Them, We Should Try To Understand Them As We Try To Understand Anyone — In Order To Know Them Better, Not In Order To Know Something Else.

So If Hunger Provokes Wailing And Wailing Brings The Breast; If The Breast Permits Sucking And Milk Suggests Its Swallow; If Swallowing Issues In Sleep And Stomachy Comfort, Then Need, Ache, Message, Object, Act, And Satisfaction Are Soon Associated Like Charms On A Chain; Shortly Our Wants Begin To Envision The Things Which Well Reduce Them, And The Organism Is Finally Said To Wish.

How Do We Know, Then, When A Code's Been Cracked?when We Are Right?when Do We Know If We Have Even Received A Message? Why, Naturally, When, Upon One Set Of Substitutions, Sense Emerges Like The Outline Under A Rubbing; When A Single Tentative Construal Leads To Several; When All The Sullen Letters Of The Code Cry Team! After Yea! Has Been, By Several Hands, Uncovered.