Stupidity always accompanies evil. Or evil, stupidity.

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.

Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

No more pronouncements on lousy verse. No more hidden competition. No more struggling not to be a square.

Perhaps this very instant is your time.

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.

All art, in spite of the struggles of some critics to prove otherwise, is based on emotion and projects emotion.