A culture, we all know, is made by its cities.
What are men? Children who doubt.
We make too much of that long groan which underlines the past.
Who cares about a kid from the Midwest writing pentameter? It's stupid.
In Eden who sleeps happiest? The serpent.
Memory that yearns to join the centre, a limb remembering the body from which it has been severed, like those bamboo thighs of the god.