The poem is always the last resort. In it the poet makes a world in little, and finds peace, even though, under complete focused emotion, the evocation be far more bitter than reality, or far more lovely.

I don't like quintessential certitude.

But childhood prolonged, cannot remain a fairyland. It becomes a hell.

Because language is the carrier of ideas, it is easy to believe that it should be very little else than such a carrier.

...in a time lacking in truth and certainty and filled with anguish and despair, no woman should be shamefaced in attempting to give back to the world, through her work, a portion of its lost heart.

The art of one period cannot be approached through the attitudes (emotional or intellectual) of another.

Hate does not present many choices; if hate is your solution, you are fairly certain to hate all phemonena with equal joy and intensity, without troubling to drag into prominence any one feature from the loathsome whole.