Words Are A Commodity In Which There

Any Man Worth His Salt Has By The Time He Is Forty-five Accumulated A Crown Of Thorns, And The Problem Is To Learn To Wear It Over One Ear.

We Visit Bookshops Not So Often To Buy Any One Special Book, But Rather To Rediscover, In The Happier And More Expressive Words Of Others, Our Own Encumbered Soul.

The Courage Of The Poet Is To Keep Ajar The Door That Leads Into Madness.

Life Is A Foreign Language; All Men Mispronounce It.

The World, In Its Sheer Exuberance Of Kindness, Will Try To Bury The Poet With Warm And Lovely Human Trivialities. It Will Even Ask Him To Autograph Books.