I'm Going Mad, I Told Myself. Let

I Think The Americans Are Dying To Leave Iraq. I Was Against The War But Longed For The Fall Of Saddam; The Decision To Go To War Clearly Was Taken Long Before The Matter Reached The U.n., Given Its Inevitability. I Kept My Fingers Crossed For The Emergence Of Democracy In Iraq Even If That Would Mean Victory For A Man Whose Politics I Have Little Sympathy With.

She Wanted To Leave, She Wanted To Lie Alone Face Down On Her Bed And Savor The Vile Piquancy Of The Moment, And Go Back Down The Lines Of Branching Consequences To The Point Before The Destruction Began. She Needed To Contemplate With Eyes Closed The Full Richness Of What She Had Lost, What She Had Given Away, And To Anticipate The New Regime.

But To Do Its Noticing And Judging, Poetry Balances Itself On The Pinprick Of The Moment. Slowing Down, Stopping Yourself Completely, To Read And Understand A Poem Is Like Trying To Acquire An Old-fashioned Skill.

Was It Possible That I Was, In The Modern Term, In Denial?

He Saw That No One Owned Anything Really. It's All Rented, Or Borrowed. Our Possessions Will Outlast Us, We'll Desert Them In The End.