The Test Is Always How We Treat

How Are We To Write The Russian Novel In America As Long As Life Goes So Unterribly?

Have I Not Walked Without An Upward Look Of Caution Under Stars That Very Well Might Not Have Missed Me When They Shot And Fell? It Was A Risk I Had To Take-and Took.

A Bank Is A Place Where They Lend You An Umbrella In Fair Weather And Ask For It Back When It Begins To Rain.

Now No Joy But Lacks Salt That Is Not Dashed With Pain And Weariness And Fault; I Crave The Stain Of Tears, The Aftermark Of Almost Too Much Love, The Sweet Of Bitter Bark And Burning Clove.

I Alone Of English Writers Have Consciously Set Myself To Make Music Out Of What I May Call The Sound Of Sense.