Dignity Is An Anachronism.

Preserve, Within A Wild Sanctuary, An Inaccessible Valley Of Reverie.

Spring, Which Germinated In The Earth, Moved Also With A Strange Restlessness, In The Hearts Of... Women. As The Weeks Passed, Inextinguishable Hope, Which Mounts With The Rising Sap, Looked From Their Faces.

No Matter How Vital Experience Might Be While You Lived It, No Sooner Was It Ended And Dead Than It Became As Lifeless As The Piles Of Dry Dust In A School History Book.

I Have Written Chiefly Because, Though I Have Often Dreaded The Necessity, I Have Found It More Painful, In The End, Not To Write.

I Have Little Faith In The Theory That Organized Killing Is The Best Prelude To Peace.