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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535753" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Problems Of A Journalist</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535753" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">“I want to get away somewhere and re-read Proust,” <br>Said an editor of Fortune to a man on Time. <br>But the fire roared and died, the phoenix quacked like a goose, <br>And all roads to the country fray like shawls <br>Outside the dusk of suburbs. Pacing the halls <br>Where mile-high windows frame a dream with witnesses, <br>You taste, fantast and epicure, the names of towns along the coast, <br>Black roadsters throbbing on the highways blue with rain <br>Toward one lamp, burning on those sentences. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535753" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><br>“I want to get away somewhere and re-read Proust,” <br>Said an editor of Newsweek to a man on Look. <br>Dachaus with telephones, Siberias with bonuses. <br>One reads, as winter settles on the town, <br>The evening paper, in an Irving Place café.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Weldon+Kees">Weldon Kees</a></strong></div>

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