His face was blue, on his fingers Flecks of green. 'This is my father', I thought.

In [The New Poetry] I had attacked the British poets' nervous preference for gentility above all else, and their avoidance of the uncomfortable, destructive tr…

Despite the hundreds of attempts, police terror and the concentration camps have proved to be more or less impossible subjects for the artist; since what happe…

Mass democracy, mass morality and the mass media thrive independently of the individual, who joins them only at the cost of at least a partial perversion of hi…

His head was so beautiful. I tried to hold the top of his head down, maybe I could keep it in... but I knew he was dead.

Ender stepped under the water and rinsed himself, took the sweat of combat and let it run down the drain. All gone, except they recycled it and we'll be drinki…

'I shall never forget that event - a boy was brutally killed by a Cossack with his sabre.'