The Task Of Man Is

What Is More Important In A Library Than Anything Else-than Everything Else-is The Fact That It Exists.

Autumn Is The American Season. In Europe The Leaves Turn Yellow Or Brown, And Fall. Here They Take Fire On The Trees And Hang There Flaming. We Think This Frost-fire Is A Portent Somehow: A Promise That The Continent Has Given Us. Life, Too, We Think, Is Capable Of Taking Fire In This Country; Of Creating Beauty Never Seen.

Journalism Wishes To Tell What It Is That Has Happened Everywhere As Though The Same Things Had Happened For Every Man. Poetry Wishes To Say What It Is Like For Any Man To Be Himself In The Presence Of A Particular Occurrence As Though Only He Were Alone There.

If The Art Of Poetry Is?the Art Of Making Sense Of The Chaos Of Human Experience, It's Not A Bad Thing To See A Lot Of Chaos.

. . . What Humanity Most Desperately Needs Is Not The Creation Of New Worlds But The Recreation In Terms Of Human Comprehension Of The World We Have -- And It Is For This Reason That Arts Go On For Generation To Generation In Spite Of The Fact That Phidias Has Already Carved And Homer Has Already Sung. The Creation, We Are Informed, Was Accomplished In Seven Days With Sunday Off, But The Recreation Will Never Be Accomplished Because It Is Always Accomplished Anew For Each Generation Of Living Men.