We Sit Here, Very Different Each From

Never To Despise In Myself What I Have Been Taught To Despise. Nor To Despise The Other. Not To Despise The It. To Make This Relation With The It: To Know That I Am It.

A Work Of Art Is One Through Which The Consciousness Of The Artist Is Able To Give Its Emotions To Anyone Who Is Prepared To Receive Them.

Outrage And Possibility Are In All The Poems We Know.

Dogma And Shrinking From The External World Are At One Limit Of The Range Of Belief. At The Other Are Science And Poetry And, Indeed, Reality.

How Can I Look Back And Not Speak Of The Stupid Learning About Birth? Of The Stupid Learning That People Make Love, And How It Seemed The Reason For All Things, The Intimacy Of My Wondering, The Illumination That To An Adolescent Was The Cause For Life Around Me, The Reason Why The Unhappy People I Knew Did Not Kill Themselves?