Everyone Has A Moment In History Which

It Was Hard To Remember In The Heavy And Sensual Clarity Of These Mornings; I Forgot Whom I Hated And Who Hated Me. I Wanted To Break Out Crying From Stabs Of Hopeless Joy, Or Intolerable Promise, Or Because These Mornings Were Too Full Of Beauty For Me, Because I Knew Of Too Much Hate To Be Contained In A World Like This.

The Summer Of 1943 At Exeter Was As Happy A Time As I Ever Had In My Life.

There Was No Harm In Taking Aim, Even If The Target Was A Dream.

It Is A Sad Day When One Looks Back And Sees That His Largest Regrets Have Become Some Of The Most Integral Elements Of His Dreams.

Everyone Has A Moment In History Which Belongs Particularly To Him. It Is The Moment When His Emotions Achieve Their Most Powerful Sway Over Him, And Afterward When You Say To This Person "the World Today" Or "life" Or "reality" He Will Assume That You Mean This Moment, Even If It Is Fifty Years Past. The World, Through His Unleashed Emotions, Imprinted Itself Upon Him, And He Carries The Stamp Of That Passing Moment Forever.