Once Form Has Been Smashed, It Has

At Midnight Tears Run Into Your Ears.

Hate Does Not Present Many Choices; If Hate Is Your Solution, You Are Fairly Certain To Hate All Phemonena With Equal Joy And Intensity, Without Troubling To Drag Into Prominence Any One Feature From The Loathsome Whole.

The Measured Blood Beats Out The Year's Delay.

The Fact, And The Intuition Or Logic About The Fact, Are Severe Coordinates In Fiction. In The Short Story They Must Cross With Hair-line Precision.

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.