This Is No Book. Whoever Touches This

Glance Is The Enemy Of Vision.

Poetry Is A Very Complex Art.... It Is An Art Of Pure Sound Bound In Through An Art Of Arbitrary And Conventional Symbols.

It Is More Than Likely That The Brain Itself Is, In Origin And Development, Only A Sort Of Great Clot Of Genital Fluid Held In Suspense Or Reserved. This Hypothesis Would Explain The Enormous Content Of The Brain As A Maker Or Presenter Of Images.

The Book Shd. Be A Ball Of Light In One's Hand.

The Individual Cannot Think And Communicate His Thought, The Governor And Legislator Cannot Act Effectively Or Frame His Laws Without Words, And The Solidity And Validity Of These Words Is In The Care Of The Damned And Despised Litterati...when Their Very Medium, The Very Essence Of Their Work, The Application Of Word To Thing Goes Rotten, I.e. Becomes Slushy And Inexact, Or Excessive Or Bloated, The Whole Machinery Of Social And Of Individual Thought And Order Goes To Pot.