I Met God. 'what,' He Said, 'you

All Literature Is Written By The Old To Teach The Young How To Express Themselves So That They In Turn May Write Literature To Teach The Old How To Express Themselves. All Literature Is Written By Mentally Precocious Adolescents And By Mentally Precocious Senescents.

Nature Is What You Don't Have To Trouble About. It Looks After Itself.

The Rhythmic Pattern Of The Poem, Which Forces Continuity Of Attention - Incites A Pleasurable Compulsion To 'follow' - Is Either A Tried Metrical Suasion-contrivance Or A Specially Invented Pattern Of Physical Insistences, Equally, If Not More, Binding In Its Effect On The Reader. From A Straight Linguistic Point Of View, There Is Room For Wonder If There Is Not Latent Vice In This Environment In Which Pleasurable Physically-compelled Responses, Produced By Incidents Of Poetic Utterance, Are Identified With The Good.

Emile Saint-blague Had Been A Lively, Versatile Painter In His Youth, But He Had Abused His Energy By Painting Too Many Pictures; So That In What Might Have Been The Ripe Period Of His Art He Had Nothing Left But Ideas. A Man Who Has Nothing Left But Ideas May Be Of Great Service To His Friends, But He Is Of No Use At All To Himself. Emile Was Certainly An Inspiration To His Friends.

Poetry Is A Sleep-maker For That Which Sits Up Late In Us Listening For The Footfall Of The Future On To-day's Doorstep.