With Usura With Usura Hath No Man

I Consider Criticism Merely A Preliminary Excitement, A Statement Of Things A Writer Has To Clear Up In His Own Head Sometime Or Other, Probably Antecedent To Writing; Of No Value Unless It Come To Fruit In The Created Work Later.

America Is A Lunatic Asylum.

The Primary Pigment Of Poetry Is The Image.

The Apparition Of These Faces In The Crowd; Petals On A Wet Black Bough.

The Worst Mistake I Made Was That Stupid, Suburban Prejudice Of Anti-semitism.