Seven types of ambiguity.

It seems unpleasantly refinedTo put things off till someone knows.

My heart pumps yet the poison draught of you.

It is this deep blankness is the real thing strange.The more things happen to you the more you can’tTell or remember even what they were.

So your flesh shall be part of mineAnd part of mine be yours.Brother and sister we shall beWhose unity endures.Always the sister doll will cry,Made in these careful ways,Cry on and on, Come back to...

A humanist, as I understand the term, says, “This world is good enough for me, if only I can be good enough for it.”

Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end.

The “News,” the conferences that leer,the creeping fog, the civil traps.These are what force you into fear.

So your flesh shall be part of mine And part of mine be yours. Brother and sister we shall be Whose unity endures. Always the sister doll will cry, Made in these careful ways, Cry...

. . . the waste even in a fortunate life, the isolation of a life rich in intimacy, cannot but be felt deeply, and is the central feeling of tragedy. And anything of value must...

The “News,” the conferences that leer, the creeping fog, the civil traps. These are what force you into fear.

The heart of standing is you cannot fly.

It seems unpleasantly refined To put things off till someone knows.

Attending there let us absorb the cultures of nationsAnd dissolve into our judgement all their codes.Then, being clogged, with a natural hesitation(People are continually asking one the way out),Let us stand here and admit that...

Law makes long spokes of the short stakes of men.

It is the pain, it is the pain, endures.

. . . life involves maintaining oneself between contradictions that can’t be solved by analysis.

Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.It is not the effort nor the failure tires.The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.

It seemed the best thing to be up and go.

You don’t want madhouse and the whole thing there.