Imaginative Qualities of Actual Things - pg. 158

So his poems were hard lumps, for all their celebration of "the good things". Have you ever read those free and open poems, filled with joyous rapture about sex and youth, yet there is this accurate and sharp odor of venom from them? As if they were written in poison. So Anton's poems were these chilled, hard objects, the emotion on the poem, coats of varicolored paint. In a way, I was (and am) reminded of screwdrivers and hammers, monkey wrenches, when I see these poems. You've seen them before, you'll see them again. But he had all the time in the world for producing this Bakelite. His leisure, given to Art. So could his writing develop. The silly little bastard!