He Thought About Himself And To The

Her Thoughts Ran Away To Her Girlhood With Its Passionate Longing For Adventure And She Remembered The Arms Of Men That Had Held Her When Adventure Was A Possible Thing For Her. Particularly She Remembered One Who Had For A Time Been Her Lover And Who In The Moment Of His Passion Had Cried Out To Her More Than A Hundred Times, Saying The Same Words Madly Over And Over: "you Dear! You Dear! You Lovely Dear!" The Words, She Thought, Expressed Something She Would Have Liked To Have Achieved In Life.

In The Beginning When The World Was Young There Were A Great Many Thoughts But No Such Thing As Truth. Man Made The Truths Himself And Each Truth Was A Composite Of A Great Many Vague Thoughts. All About In The World Were Truths And They Were All Beautiful.

Love Is Like A Wind Stirring The Grass Beneath Trees On A Black Night,' He Had Said. 'you Must Not Try To Make Love Definite. It Is The Divine Accident Of Life. If You Try To Be Definite And Sure About It And To Live Beneath The Trees, Where Soft Night Winds Blow, The Long Hot Day Of Disappointment Comes Swiftly And The Gritty Dust From Passing Wagons Gathers Upon Lips Inflamed And Made Tender By Kisses.

There Is This Thing Called Life. We Live It, Not As We Intend Or Wish, But As We Are Driven On By Forces Outside And Inside Ourselves.

The Fools Who Write Articles About Me Think That One Morning I Suddenly Decided To Write And Began To Produce Masterpieces. There Is No Special Trick About Writing, Or Painting Either. I Wrote Constantly For 15 Years Before I Produced Anything With Any Solidity To It.