All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. Like carpenter, like chips. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. “Feel better.
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