It's Hard To Ravish A Tin Of

The Man Who Had Died Looked Nakedly On Life, And Saw A Vast Resoluteness Everywhere Flinging Itself Up In Stormy Or Subtle Wave-crests.... Always The Man Who Had Died Saw Not The Bird Alone, But The Short, Sharp Wave Of Life Of Which The Bird Was The Crest.

Never Trust The Artist. Trust The Tale. The Proper Function Of The Critic Is To Save The Tale From The Artist Who Created It.

The Moon! Artemis! The Great Goddess Of The Splendid Past Of Men! Are You Going To Tell Me She Is A Dead Lump?

In Every Great Novel, Who Is The Hero All The Time? Not Any Of The Characters, But Some Unnamed And Nameless Flame Behind Them All.

So Slowly The Hot Elephant Hearts Grow Full Of Desire, And The Great Beasts Mate In Secret At Last, Hiding Their Fire.