When Book And Reader's Furrowed Brow Meet,

The True Alchemists Do Not Change Lead Into Gold; They Change The World Into Words.

The Alcoholic Trance Is Not Just A Haze, As Though The Eyes Were Also Unshaven. It Is Not A Mere Buzzing In The Ears, A Dizzinessor Disturbance Of Balance. One Arrives In The Garden Again, At Nursery Time, When The Gentle Animals Are Fed And In All The World There Are Only Toys.

My Face Is Muffled In My Mother's Clothing. Her Rhinestones Injure Me. See: My Feet Are Going. Fish Flee The Forefinger Of My Aunt. The Sun Streams Over The Geraniums. What Has This To Do With What I Feel, With What I Am.

So To The Wretched Writer I Should Like To Say That There’s One Body Only Whose Request For Your Caresses Is Not Vulgar, Is Not Unchaste, Untoward, Or Impolite: The Body Of Your Work Itself; For You Must Remember That Your Attentions Will Not Merely Celebrate A Beauty But Create One; That Yours Is Love That Brings It Own Birth With It, Just As Plato Has Declared, And That You Should Therefore Give Up The Blue Things Of This World In Favor Of The Words Which Say Them

So If Hunger Provokes Wailing And Wailing Brings The Breast; If The Breast Permits Sucking And Milk Suggests Its Swallow; If Swallowing Issues In Sleep And Stomachy Comfort, Then Need, Ache, Message, Object, Act, And Satisfaction Are Soon Associated Like Charms On A Chain; Shortly Our Wants Begin To Envision The Things Which Well Reduce Them, And The Organism Is Finally Said To Wish.