Words Have No Word For Words That

A Poet's Hope: To Be, Like Some Valley Cheese, Local, But Prized Elsewhere.

The Commonest Ivory Tower Is That Of The Average Man, The State Of Passivity Towards Experience.

Lost In A Haunted Wood, Children Afraid Of The Night Who Have Never Been Happy Or Good.

So Long As We Think Of It Objectively, Time Is Fate Or Chance, The Factor In Our Lives For Which We Are Not Responsible, And About Which We Can Do Nothing; But When We Begin To Think Of It Subjectively, We Feel Responsible For Our Time, And The Notion Of Punctuality Arises.

No Poet Or Novelist Wishes He Were The Only One Who Ever Lived, But Most Of Them Wish They Were The Only One Alive, And Quite A Number Fondly Believe Their Wish Has Been Granted.