A Person Is A Process, One That

The Climate Of Our Culture Is Changing. Under These New Rains, New Suns, Small Things Grow Great, And What Was Great Grows Small; Whole Species Disappear And Are Replaced.

One Whitman Is Miracle Enough, And When He Comes Again It Will Be The End Of The World.

I See At Last That All The Knowledge I Wrung From The Darkness - That Darkness Flung Me - Is Worthless As Ignorance: Nothing Comes From Nothing The Darkness From The Darkness. Pain Comes From The Darkness And We Call It Wisdom. It Is Pain.

We Died Like Aunts Of Pets Or Foreigners.

How Can We Expect Novelists To Be Moral, When Their Trade Forces Them To Treat Every End They Meet As No More Than An Imperfect Means To A Novel?