The Mere Attempt To Examine My Own

I Suspect The Fault...is In Me: That I Hate Any Job On Earth, As A Job And A Hindrance And A Semi-suicide.

And Somewhat As In Blind Night, On A Mild Sea, A Sailor May Be Made Aware Of An Iceberg, Fanged And Mortal, Bearing Invisibly Near, By The Unwarned Charm Of Its Breath, Nothingness Now Revealed Itself: That Permanent Night Upon Which The Stars In Their Expiring Generations Are Less Than The Glinting Of Gnats, And Nebulae, More Trivial Than Winter Breath; That Darkness In Which Eternity Lies Bent And Pale, A Dead Snake In A Jar, And Infinity Is The Sparkling Of A Wren Blown Out To Sea; That Inconceivable Chasm Of Invulnerable Silence In Which Cataclysms Of Galaxies Rave Mute As Amber.

A Girl's Brain Is Mysterious, But Only In A Superficial Way-a Way Very Exasperating To Me.

Children, Taught Either Years Beneath Their Intelligence Or Miles Wide Of Relevance To It, Or Both: Their Intelligence Becomes Hopelessly Bewildered, Drawn Off Its Centers, Bored, Or Atrophied.

Of Those That Are Drawn Away, Each Is Drawn Elsewhere Toward Another: Once More A Man And A Woman, In A Loneliness They Are Not Liable At That Time To Notice, Are Tightened Together Upon A Bed: And Another Family Has Begun.