W.H. Auden

is a wrinkled man. When you look at the wrinkled skin on his face, one can't help but wondering what must his balls look like.

When I looked at the wrinkled skin on W.H. Auden's face, I kept wondering, what must his balls look like?

is the high-water mark of socialist literature, a sort of gutless kipling.

is a man with a face like a wedding cake left out in the rain.

he has a face like A wedding cake left out in the rain.

is a poet in whose lyric abstrusities ring mystically down the circular canals of the ear. His words, like a good gray conservative snow, smooth, in one white lacy euphemism after another, out all the black bleak angular unangelic nauseous ugliness of the blasted sterile world.

The lyric abstrusities of Auden ring mystically down the circular canals of my ear and it begins to look like snow. The good gray conservative obliterating snow. Smoothing (in one white lacy euphemism after another) out all the black bleak angular unangelic nauseous ugliness of the blasted sterile world: dry buds, shrunken stone houses, dead vertical moving people all all all go under the great white beguiling wave. And come out transformed. Lose yourself in a numb dumb snow-daubed lattice of crystal and come out pure with the white virginal veneer you never had.

W.H. Auden, n.All

W.H. Auden