Anger Is Its Own Excuse And Its

Anger Is Its Own Excuse And Its Own Reward.

I Think Every Creative Impulse That A Working Writer, Or Artist Of Any Sort Has, Comes Out Of That Dark Old Country Where Dreams Come From.

Laughter Nibbled At My Lips Like Tiny Fish In Warm Water.

That Sinuous Southern Life, That Oblique And Slow And Complicated Old Beauty, That Warm Thick Air And Blood Warm Sea, That Place Of Mists And Languor And Fragrant Richness.

I Have A Theory That Southern Madhouses Are Full Of Gifted Women Who Were Stifled.