The Artist Is The Antenna Of The

Here Is Our Poetry, For We Have Pulled Down The Stars To Our Will.

In Case I Conk Out, This Is Provisionally What I Have To Do: I Must Clarify Obscurities; I Must Make Clearer Definite Ideas Or Dissociations. I Must Find A Verbal Formula To Combat The Rise Of Brutality--the Principle Of Order Versus The Split Atom.

The Technique Of Infamy Is To Start Two Lies At Once And Get People Arguing Heatedly Over Which Is The Truth.

Real Education Must Ultimately Be Limited To Men Who Insist On Knowing, The Rest Is Mere Sheep-herding.

The Garden En Robe De Parade. - Samain Like A Skein Of Loose Silk Blown Against A Wall She Walks By The Railing Of A Path In Kensington Gardens, And She Is Dying Piece-meal Of A Sort Of Emotional Anaemia. And Round About There Is A Rabble Of The Filthy, Sturdy, Unkillable Infants Of The Very Poor. They Shall Inherit The Earth. In Her Is The End Of Breeding. Her Boredom Is Exquisite And Excessive. She Would Like Some One To Speak To Her, And Is Almost Afraid That I Will Commit That Indiscretion.