Whether They Write Poems Or Don't Write

And The World Said, Child, You Will Not Be Missed. You Are Cheaper Than A Wrench, Your Back Is A Road; Your Death Is A Table In A Book. You Had Our Wit, Our Heart Was Sealed To You: Man Is The Judgment Of The World.

A Person Is A Process, One That Leads To Death.

One Of The Most Puzzling Things About A Novel Is That "the Way It Really Was" Half The Time Is, And Half The Time Isn't, The Way It Ought To Be In The Novel.

Many Poets Write As If They Had Been Decerebrated, And Not Simply Lobotomized, As A Cure For Their Melancholia.

We Can't Tell Our Life From Our Wish