Racism? But Isn't It Only A Form

I Grew Up In The Sort Of Cultural Milieu That Always Regarded Conversations About The Political Discourse As Tremendously Low-brow.

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.

The Fact That We Are Living Does Not Mean We Are Not Sick.

I Don't Have Principles. I Have Nerves.

This Is The Generation Whose First Cry Of Life Was The Hungarian Uprising.