What Thou Lovest Well Remains.

Allow Me To Say That I Would Long Since Have Committed Suicide Had Desisting Made Me A Professor Of Latin.

The Rustling Of The Silk Is Discontinued, Dust Drifts Over The Courtyard, There Is Not Sound Of Footfall, And The Leaves Scurry Into Heaps And Lie Still, And She The Rejoicer Of The Heart Is Beneath Them: A Wet Leaf That Clings To The Threshold.

Poetry Is A Language Pared Down To Its Essentials.

Usury Is The Cancer Of The World, Which Only The Surgeon’s Knife Of Fascism Can Cut Out Of The Life Of The Nations.

Genius Is The Capacity To See Ten Things Where The Ordinary Man Sees One, And The Man Of Talent Sees Two Or Three, Plus The Ability To Register That Multiple Perception In The Material Of His Art.