Man Is What He Reads.

In America, A Metrical Poem Is Likely To Conjure Up The Idea Of The Sort Of Poet Who Wears Ties And Lunches At The Faculty Club. In Russia It Suggests The Moral Force Of An Art Practiced Against The Greatest Personal Odds, As A Discipline, Solitary And Intense.

Language And, Presumably, Literature Are More Ancient And Inevitable, More Durable Than Any Form Of Social Organization. The Revulsion, Irony, Or Indifference Often Expressed By Literature Toward The State Is Essentially The Reaction Of The Permanent-better Yet, The Infinite-against The Temporary, Against The Finite.

The Formula For Prison Is A Lack Of Space Counterbalanced By A Surplus Of Time. This Is What Really Bothers You, That You Can't Win. Prison Is Lack Of Alternatives, And The Telescopic Predictability Of The Future Is What Drives You Crazy.

I Had This Fantasy Of Becoming A Neurosurgeon. You Know, The Normal Jewish Boy Fantasy, But I Wanted To Be A Neurosurgeon For Some Reason. So I Started In This Unpleasant Way. I Was An Assistant To The Coroner, Opening Up Corpses, Taking The Innards Out, Opening Skulls, Taking The Brains Out.

Poetry Is Not Only The Most Concise Way Of Conveying The Human Experience; It Also Offers The Highest Possible Standards For Any Linguistic Operation.