We Can't Tell Our Life From Our

Pain Comes From The Darkness. And We Call It Wisdom. It Is Pain.

Most Poets, Most Good Poets Even, No Longer Have The Heart To Write About What Is Most Terrible In The World Of The Present: The Bombs Waiting Beside The Rockets, The Hundreds Of Millions Staring Into The Temporary Shelter Of Their Television Sets, The Decline Of The West That Seems Less A Decline Than The Fall Preceding An Explosion.

People Had Always Seemed To Gertrude Rather Like The Beasts In Animal Farm : All Equally Detestable, But Some More Equally Detestable Than Others.

It Is Always Hard For Poets To Believe That One Says Their Poems Are Bad Not Because One Is A Fiend But Because Their Poems Are Bad.

Doesn't The World Need The Painter's Praise Anymore?