Who Has Enough Credit In

Look At This Poet William Carlos Williams: He Is Primitive And Native, And His Roots Are In Raw Forest And Violent Places; He Is Word-sick And Place-crazy. He Admires Strength, But For What? Violence! This Is The Cult Of The Frontier Mind.

There Are Men That Are Birds, And Their Raiment Is Trembling Feathers, For They Show Their Souls To Everyone And Everything That Is Ungentle Or Untutored Or Evil Or Mockery Is As A Rude Stone Cast At Them, And They Suffer All Day Long, Or As Paul Remarks They Are Slain Every Moment.

Utility Is Our National Shibboleth: The Savior Of The American Businessman Is Fact And His Uterine Half-brother, Statistics.

We Are Always Talking About Being Together, And Yet Whatever We Invent Destroys The Family, And Makes Us Wild, Touchless Beasts Feeding On Technicolor Prairies And Rivers.

The Ruin Of The Human Heart Is Self-interest, Which The American Merchant Calls Self-service. We Have Become A Self-service Populace, And All Our Specious Comforts -the Automatic Elevator, The Escalator, The Cafeteria -are Depriving Us Of Volition And Moral And Physical Energy.