Herman Melville was as separated from a civilized literature as the lost Atlantis was said to have been from the great peoples of the earth.

So much of our lives is given over to the consideration of our imperfections that there is no time to improve our imaginary virtues. The truth is we only perfect our vices, and man is a worse creature when he dies than he was when he was born.

Look at this poet William Carlos Williams: he is primitive and native, and his roots are in raw forest and violent places; he is word-sick and place-crazy. He admires strength, but for what? Violence! This is the cult of the frontier mind.

Man hoards himself when he has nothing to give away.

Utility is our national shibboleth: the savior of the American businessman is fact and his uterine half-brother, statistics.

Man is at the nadir of his stregth when the Earth, the seas, the mountains are not in him, for without them his soul is unsourced, and he has no images by which to abide.

We are ruled by chance but never have enough patience to accept its despotism.