The Artist Is The Antenna Of The

Song In The Manner Of Housman" O Woe, Woe, People Are Born And Die, We Also Shall Be Dead Pretty Soon Therefore Let Us Act As If We Were Dead Already. The Bird Sits On The Hawthorn Tree But He Dies Also, Presently. Some Lads Get Hung, And Some Get Shot. Woeful Is This Human Lot. Woe! Woe, Etcetera.... London Is A Woeful Place, Shropshire Is Much Pleasanter. Then Let Us Smile A Little Space Upon Fond Nature's Morbid Grace. Oh, Woe, Woe, Woe, Etcetera.

But The One Thing You Should. Not Do Is To Suppose That When Something Is Wrong With The Arts, It Is Wrong With The Arts Only.

It Is Difficult To Write A Paradiso When All The Superficial Indications Are That You Ought To Write An Apocalypse.

Poetry Is About As Much A 'criticism Of Life' As Red-hot Iron Is A Criticism Of Fire.

Consider The Way Of The Scientists Rather Than The Way Of An Advertising Agent For A New Soap.