Many modern novels have a beginning, a muddle and an end.

Death is no different whined at than withstood.

I think that at the bottom of all art lies the impulse to preserve.

Everyone should be forcibly transplanted to another continent from their family at the age of three.

Get stewed:Books are a load of crap.

The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief. Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too. Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still the unresting castles thresh In fullgrown thickness every May. Last year is dead, they seem to say, Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

Here is an unfenced existance