It Is A Commonplace That Racine Is

The Dumping Of The Mentally Ill, Full Of These New Psychiatric Drugs, Into The Streets Is A Scandal. It's Been Carried Furthest In New York, Where Whole Sections Of The Decayed Upper West Side Are Being Filled With Pensioners And Psychotic Patients On Stelazine, Lithium Carbonate, And Everything Else Under The Sun. They Can't Diagnose The Patient, So They Give Him The Whole Psychiatric Pharmacopoeia At Once, And He Walks Around In A Psychotic Trance Beautifully Painted All Over With Petrochemicals.

Victorian Society Was Homogeneous Without Being Homogenized. It Was, To Paraphrase The Epigram About Parliament, A Society Of Extreme Eccentrics Who Agreed So Well That They Could Afford To Differ.

We Have Forgotten Love, And Sat Lonely Beside Each Other. We Have Eaten Together, Lonely Behind Our Plates, We Have Hidden Behind Children, We Have Slept Together In A Lonely Bed. Now My Heart Turns Toward You, Awake At Last, Penitent, Lost In The Last Loneliness. Speak To Me. Talk To Me. Break The Black Silence.

It Is A Commonplace That Racine Is Untranslatable. This Is Not Because His Verse Is Difficult, But Because It Is Not.

Art Is The Reasoned Derangement Of The Senses.