They say love dies between two people. Thats wrong. It doesn't die. It just leaves you$$$ goes away$$$ if you aren't good enough$$$ worthy enough. It doesn't die; you're the the one that dies. It's like the ocean: if you're no good$$$ if you begin to make a bad smell in it$$$ it just spews you up somewhere to die. You die anyway$$$ but I had rather drown in the ocean than be urped up onto a strip of dead beach and be dried away by the sun into a little foul smear with no name to it$$$ just this was for an epitaph.
...lifeless and shockingly alien in that place where dissolution itself was a seething turmoil of ejaculation$$$ tumescence$$$ conception and birth$$$ and death did not even exit.
I will never lie again.
It was only as he put his hand on the door that he became aware of complete silence beyond it$$$ a silence which he at eighteen knew that it would take more than one person to make.
I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal$$$ not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice$$$ but because he has a soul$$$ a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's$$$ the writer's$$$ duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help a man endure by lifting his heart$$$ by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past.
That's the one trouble with this country: everything$$$ weather$$$ all$$$ hangs on too long. Like our rivers$$$ our land: opaque$$$ slow$$$ violent; shaping and creating the life of man in its implacable and brooding image.
And George Farr had the town$$$ the earth$$$ the world to himself and his sorrow. Music came faint as a troubling rumor beneath the spring night$$$ sweetened by distance: a longing knowing no ease. (Oh God$$$ oh God!) At last George Farr gave up trying to see her. He had phoned vainly and time after time$$$ at last the telephone became the end in place of the means: he had forgotten why he wanted to reach her. Finally he told himself that he hated her$$$ that he would go away; finally he was going to as much pains to avoid her as he had been to see her.
Stars were golden unicorns neighing unheard through blue meadows.
If Jesus returned today we would have to crucify him quick in our own defense$$$ to justify and preserve the civilization we have worked and suffered and died shrieking and cursing in rage and impotence and terror for two thousand years to create and perfect in man's own image; if Venus returned she would be a soiled man in a subway lavatory with a palm full of French post-cards.
... too much brooding$$$ not enough doing.