The modern essay has regained a good deal of its literary status in our time, much to the credit of Joseph Epstein.

The good poet sticks to his real loves, to see within the realm of possibility. He never tries to hold hands with God or the human race.

Laughter and grief join hands. Always the heart Clumps in the breast with heavy stride; The face grows lined and wrinkled like a chart, The eyes bloodshot with tears and tide. Let the wind blow, for many a man shall die.

The body, what is it, Father, but a sign To love the force that grows us, to give back What in Thy palm is senselessness and mud?

Already old, the question Who shall die? Becomes unspoken Who is innocent?

Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique.

To make the child in your own image is a capital crime, for your image is not worth repeating. The child knows this and you know it. Consequently you hate each other.