Beloved, till life can charm no more; And mourned, till Pity’s self be dead.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country’s wishes blest!
Prior to Wordsworth, humor was an essential part of poetry. I mean, they don’t call them Shakespeare comedies for nothing.
When a writer becomes a reader of his or her own work, a lot can go wrong. It’s like do-it-yourself dentistry.
I think humor is a very serious thing. I use it as a way of weakening the reader’s defenses so that I can more easily take him to something more.
Words like feminism or democracy scare me. They are words with barnacles on them, and you can’t see what’s underneath.