It Is Part Of The Poet's Work

The Ghost Of The Heart Of Manred Cain And The More Murderous Brain Of Man, Still Redder Nero That Conceived The Death Of His Mother Earth, And Tore Her Womb, To Know The Place Where He Was Conceived.

Virginia Woolf's Writing Is No More Than Glamorous Knitting. I Believe She Must Have A Pattern Somewhere.

Good Taste Is The Worst Vice Ever Invented.

The Poet Is The Complete Lover Of Mankind.

I Wouldn't Dream Of Following A Fashion... How Could One Be A Different Person Every Three Months?