I Don’t Believe That A Reviewer Or

The True Feeling Of Sex Is That Of A Deep Intimacy, But Above All Of A Deep Complicity.

To Be Precise And Reckless: That Is The Consummation Devoutly To Be Wished.

The Women Of The South Have Brought Into American Literature A Unique Mixture Of Domesticity And Grotesquerie.

What A View, I Said Again. The River Was Blank And Mindless With Beauty. It Was The Most Glorious Thing I Have Ever Seen. But It Was Not Seeing, Really. For Once It Was Not Just Seeing. It Was Beholding. I Beheld The River In Its Icy Pit Of Brightness, In Its Far-below Sound And Indifference, In Its Large Coil And Tiny Points And Flashes Of The Moon, In Its Long Sinuous Form, In Its Uncomprehending Consequence.

I Do Think The Author Ought To Be Able To Give A Good Reason For The Way Things Are In His Poem. Not A Bad Question To Ask Oneself.