It is the belief in the art of poetry that has gone hand in hand
with this man into his Golgotha, from that charnel house,
similar in every way, to that of the Jews in the past war. But
this is in our own country, our own fondest purlieus. We are
blind and live our blind lives out in blindness. Poets are
damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the
angels. This poet sees through and all around the horrors he
partakes of in the very intimate details of his poem. He avoids
nothing but experiences it to the hilt. He contains it. Claims
it as his own -- and, we believe, laughs at it and has the
time and affrontery to love a fellow of his choice and record
that love in a well-made poem.

Hold back the edges of your gowns, Ladies, we are going
through hell.

William Carlos Williams.

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