All Are / Naked, None Is Safe.

Of The Crow-blue Mussel Shells, One Keeps Adjusting The Ash Heaps; Opening And Shutting Itself Like An Injured Fan.

Not Till The Poets Among Us Can Be "literalists Of The Imagination"-above Insolence And Triviality And Can Present For Inspection, "imaginary Gardens With Real Toads In Them." Shall We Have It.

Writing Is An Undertaking For The Modest.

The Weak Overcomes Its/ Menace, The Strong Over-/comes Itself.

A Writer Is Unfair To Himself When He Is Unable To Be Hard On Himself.