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Adultery Is A Meanness And A Stealing, A Taking Away From Someone What Should Be Theirs, A Great Selfishness, And Surrounded And Guarded By Lies Lest It Should Be Found Out. And Out Of Meanness And Selfishness And Lying Flow Love And Joy And Peace Beyond Anything That Can Be Imagined.

The Poet Has To Make A Synthesis Out Of The Moral Life Of Our Time, And This Life Is Lived At This Moment On A Political Plane.

The Manuscript May Go Forth From The Writer To Return With A Faithfulness Passing The Faithfulness Of The Boomerang Or The Homing Pigeon.

Decades Have A Delusive Edge To Them. They Are Not, Of Course, Really Periods At All, Except As Any Other Ten Years May Be. But We, Looking At Them, Are Caught By The Different Name Each Bears, And Give Them Different Attributes, And Tie Labels On Them, As If They Were Flowers In A Border.

Nothing, Perhaps, Is Strange, Once You Have Accepted Life Itself, The Great Strange Business Which Includes All Lesser Strangeness.