One Can Forgive Shakespeare Anything, Except One's

Bigotry Does Not Consort Easily With Free Trade.

No Poet Is Ever Completely Lost. He Has The Secret Of His Childhood Safe With Him, Like Some Secret Cave In Which He Can Kneel. And, When We Read His Poetry, We Can Join Him There.

It Is Strange, Is It Not, How A Person Can Adore One's Soul So Much That They Adore One's Body Also?

There Is A Word In Old English Which Belongs Wholly To That Civilization - "dustsceawung," Meaning Contemplation Of Dust. It Is A True Image Of The Anglo-saxon Mind, Or At Least An Echo Of That Consciousness Which Considered Transcience And Loss To Be Part Of The Human Estate; It Was A World In Which Life Was Uncertain And The Principal Diety Was Fate Or Destiny Or "wyrd."

I Think Biography Can Be More Personal Than Fiction, And Certainly Can Be More Expressive.