Friends You Have, People You Love, Die

Realism, In So Far As The Word Means Reality To Life, Is Always Bad Art.

The Writing Of Words Can Lead To All Sorts Of Absurdities.

If Our Family Was Poor, Of What Did Our Poverty Consist? If Our Clothes Were Torn The Torn Places Only Let In The Sun And Wind. In The Winter We Had No Overcoats, But That Only Meant We Ran Rather Than Loitered.

It Is Apparent That Nations Cannot Exist For Us. They Are The Playthings Of Children, Such Toys As Children Break From Boredom And Weariness. The Branch Of A Tree Is My Country. My Freedom Sleeps In A Mulberry Bush. My Country Is In The Shivering Legs Of A Little Lost Dog.

You Can Make It All Right If You Will Only Be Satisfied To Remain Small," I Told Myself. I Had To Keep Saying It Over And Over To Myself. "be Little. Don't Try To Be Big. Work Under The Guns. Be A Little Worm In The Fair Apple Of Life.