O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.

The fact, and the intuition or logic about the fact, are severe coordinates in fiction. In the short story they must cross with hair-line precision.

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.

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

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.

Up from the bronze, I saw Water without a flaw Rush to its rest in air Reach to its rest, and fall.