Eliot's poetry reverberates in us because it appeals to our sense of the unbornness of the worlds in which we live, our sense of the immaturity and plasticity of even the most learned, smart, highly developed self.
, NYRB 2001, vol.1, p.327-8: The non-necessary [causes] follow; of which, saith Fuchsius, no art can be made, by reason of their uncertainty, casualty, and multitude […]
I must alert you all to a critical oversight in today's slashfic. Amid all the gleeful anal romping and glute-grinding cock-milking, where, o where, is the santorum?
Very little is known about it, and there is very little to know, till the limit of Arabia be passed and the Euphratean delta reached.
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