In the evolution of mankind there has always been a certain degree of social coherence.

The slave may be happy, but happiness is not enough.

If the individual is a unit in a corporate mass, his life is not merely brutish and short, but dull and mechanical.

The only sin is ugliness, and if we believed this with all our being, all other activities of the human spirit could be left to take care of themselves.

Perhaps it is this theory of all work and no play that has made the Marxist such a very dull boy.

But all categories of art, idealistic or realistic, surrealistic or constructivist (a new form of idealism) must satisfy a simple test (or they are in no sense works of art): they must persist as objects of contemplation.

It is not my purpose as a poet to condemn war (or to be exact, modern warfare). I only wish to present the universal aspects of a particular event.