Once You've Lived In France, You Don't

One Can Lose A Good Idea By Not Writing It Down, Yet By Losing It One Can Have It: It Nourishes Other Asides It Knows Nothing Of, Would Not Recognize Itself In, Yet When The Negotiations Are Terminated, Speaks In The Acts Of That Progenitor, And Does Recognize Itself, Is Grateful For Not Having Done So Earlier.

I Think That In The Process Of Writing, All Kinds Of Unexpected Things Happen That Shift The Poet Away From His Plan And That These Accidents Are Really What We Mean When We Talk About Poetry.

I Would Like To Please The Reader, And I Think That Surprise Has To Be An Element Of This, And That May Necessitate A Certain Amount Of Teasing. To Shock The Reader Is Something Else Again. That Has To Be Handled With Great Care If You're Not Going To Alienate And Hurt Him, And I'm Firmly Against That, Just As I Disapprove Of People Who Dress With That In Mind - Dye Their Hair Blue And Stick Safety Pins Through Their Noses And So On.

The Soul Is Not A Soul, Has No Secret, Is Small, And It Fits Its Hollow Perfectly: Its Room, Our Moment Of Attention.

The First Year Was Like Icing. Then The Cake Started To Show Through.