Death Is Never An Ending, Death Is

It Is Precisely The Sort Of Thing I Am Always Trying To Do In My Writing -- To Present My Unhappy Reader With A Wide-ranged Chaos -- Of Actions And Reactions, Thoughts, Memories And Feelings -- In The Vain Hope That At The End He Will See That The Whole Thing Represents Only One Moment, One Feeling, One Person. A Raging, Trumpeting Jungle Of Associations, And Then I Announce At The End Of It, With A Gesture Of Despair, "this Is I!

I Love You, What Star Do You Live On?

I Think There's An Enormous Lot Of Talent Around, And Somewhere Amongst These I'm Sure That Something Will Emerge, Given Time.

The Hiss Was Now Becoming A Roar - The Whole World Was A Vast Moving Screen Of Snow - But Even Now It Said Peace, It Said Remoteness, It Said Cold, It Said Sleep.

I Think We've Come To A Kind Of Splinter Period In Poetry. These Tiny Little Bright Fragments Of Observation - And Not Produced Under Sufficient Pressure - Some Of It's Very Skillful, But I Don't Think There's Anywhere A Discernible Major Poet In The Process Of Emerging; Or If He Is, I Ain't Seen Him.