Nobody Speaks The Truth When There's Something

Darling, I Don't Want You; I've Got No Place For You; I Only Want What You Give. I Don't Want The Whole Of Anyone.... What You Want Is The Whole Of Me-isn't It, Isn't It?-and The Whole Of Me Isn't There For Anybody. In That Full Sense You Want Me I Don't Exist.

Every Love Has A Poetic Relevance Of Its Own; Each Love Brings To Light Only What To It Is Relevant. Outside Lies The Junk-yard Of What Does Not Matter.

There's Something So Showy About Desperation, It Takes Hard Wits To See It's A Grandiose Form Of Funk.

Wariness Had Driven Away Poetry; From Hesitating To Feel Came The Moment When You No Longer Could.

A Novel Which Survives, Which Withstands And Outlives Time, Does Do Something More Than Merely Survive. It Does Not Stand Still. It Accumulates Round Itself The Understanding Of All These Persons Who Bring To It Something Of Their Own. It Acquires Associations, It Becomes A Form Of Experience In Itself, So That Two People Who Meet Can Often Make Friends, Find An Approach To Each Other, Because Of This One Great Common Experience They Have Had.