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.

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

Keelhaul the poets in the vestry chairs.

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

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.

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

My soul is now her day, my day her night, So I lie down, and so I rise.