It Is A Sad Day When One

As I Said, This Was My Sarcastic Summer. It Was Only Long After That I Recognized Sarcasm As The Protest Of People Who Are Weak.

Sarcasm Is The Protest Of The Weak.

It Was Hard To Remember In The Heavy And Sensual Clarity Of These Mornings; I Forgot Whom I Hated And Who Hated Me. I Wanted To Break Out Crying From Stabs Of Hopeless Joy, Or Intolerable Promise, Or Because These Mornings Were Too Full Of Beauty For Me, Because I Knew Of Too Much Hate To Be Contained In A World Like This.

The Best Teaching I Ever Experienced Was At Exeter. Yale Was A Distinct Letdown Afterward.

I Began To Know That Each Morning Reasserted The Problems Of Night Before, That Sleep Suspended All But Changed Nothing, That You Couldn’t Make Yourself Over Between Dawn And Dusk.