If They Had Wanted To Punish Me,

In America, A Metrical Poem Is Likely To Conjure Up The Idea Of The Sort Of Poet Who Wears Ties And Lunches At The Faculty Club. In Russia It Suggests The Moral Force Of An Art Practiced Against The Greatest Personal Odds, As A Discipline, Solitary And Intense.

Every Individual Ought To Know At Least One Poet From Cover To Cover: If Not As A Guide Through The World, Then As A Yardstick For The Language.

In The End, Like The Almighty Himself, We Make Everything In Our Image, For Want Of A More Reliable Model; Our Artifacts Tell More About Ourselves Than Our Confessions.

The Formula For Prison Is A Lack Of Space Counterbalanced By A Surplus Of Time. This Is What Really Bothers You, That You Can't Win. Prison Is Lack Of Alternatives, And The Telescopic Predictability Of The Future Is What Drives You Crazy.

I Sit In The Dark. And It Would Be Hard To Figure Out Which Is Worse; The Dark Inside, Or The Darkness Out.