Between The Vision And The Act Lies

Here I Am, An Old Man In A Dry Month, Being Read To By A Boy, Waiting For Rain.

In The End Is My Beginning.

Shape Without Form, Shade Without Color, Paralyzed Force, Gesture Without Motion; Those Who Have Crossed With Direct Eyes, To Death's Other Kingdom Remember Us-if At All-not As Lost Violent Souls, But Only As The Hollow Men The Stuffed Men.

Artistic Inevitability Lies In The Complete Adequacy Of The External To The Emotion.

Those Who Talk Of The Bible As A Monument Of English Prose Are Merely Admiring It As A Monument Over The Grave Of Christianity.