The Fact That We Are Living Does

I'm Not Trying To Be Ridiculous Or Funny, But It Was Rather Pleasant To Find Yourself In Isolation, In Solitary.

If One's Fated To Be Born In Caesar's Empire, Let Him Live Aloof, Provincial, By The Seashore.

Because Every Book Of Art, Be It A Poem Or A Cupola, Is Understandably A Self-portrait Of Its Author, We Won't Strain Ourselves Too Hard Trying To Distinguish Between The Author's Persona And The Poem's Lyrical Hero. As A Rule, Such Distinctions Are Quite Meaningless, If Only Because A Lyrical Hero Is Invariably An Author's Self-projection.

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

If A Poet Has Any Obligation Toward Society, It Is To Write Well. Being In The Minority, He Has No Other Choice. Failing This Duty, He Sinks Into Oblivion. Society, On The Other Hand, Has No Obligation Toward The Poet.