... Artists Were Intended To Be An

Love Of Privacy - Perhaps Because Of The Increasing Exactions Of Society - Has Become In Many People Almost Pathological.

Very Young People Are True But Not Resounding Instruments.

The Writer, Like A Swimmer Caught By An Undertow, Is Borne In An Unexpected Direction. He Is Carried To A Subject Which Has Awaited Him--a Subject Sometimes No Part Of His Conscious Plan. Reality, The Reality Of Sensation, Has Accumulated Where It Was Least Sought. To Write Is To Be Captured--captured By Some Experience To Which One May Have Given Hardly A Thought.

Jealousy Is No More Than Feeling Alone Against Smiling Enemies.

Meetings That Do Not Come Off Keep A Character Of Their Own. They Stay As They Were Projected.