Sloth, Not Ill-will, Makes Me Unjust.

The Ninety Percent Of Human Experience That Does Not Fit Into Established Narrative Patterns Falls Into Oblivion.

Looking Backward At What Has Been Lost, I Feel Sad, Then Indifferent, And At Last Relieved.

Only The Strong And The Hopeful Are Able To Revolt.

Young Poets Bewail The Passing Of Love; Old Poets, The Passing Of Time. There Is Surprisingly Little Difference.

I Must Like My Profession, Since I Can Hardly Distinguish Myself From It.