The End Of Art Is Peace.

The Main Thing Is To Write For The Joy Of It. Cultivate A Work-lust That Imagines Its Haven Like Your Hands At Night Dreaming The Sun In The Sunspot Of A Breast. You Are Fasted Now, Light-headed, Dangerous. Take Off From Here.

Wherever That Man Went, He Went Gratefully.

To Begin With, I Wanted That Truth To Life To Possess A Concrete Reliability, And Rejoiced Most When The Poem Seemed Most Direct, An Upfront Representation Of The World It Stood In For Or Stood Up For Or Stood Its Ground Against.

I Have Always Thought Of Poems As Stepping Stones In One's Own Sense Of Oneself.

But Even So, None Of The News Of These World-spasms Entered Me As Terror.