I Ask Myself, 'why Am I So

No One In A Group Of Three Is The Same Person He (she, It) Is In A Group Of Two. No More Than He Is The Same In A Group Of Two As He Is Alone.

Writing Fiction Is An Endless And Always Defeated Effort To Capture Some Quality Of Life Without Killing It.

The Prairies Were Dust. Day After Day, Summer After Summer, The Scorching Winds Blew The Dust And The Sun Was Brassy In A Yellow Sky. Crop After Crop Failed. Again And Again The Barren Land Must Be Mortgaged For Taxes And Food And Next Year's Seed. The Agony Of Hope Ended When There Was Not Harvest And No More Credit, No Money To Pay Interest And Taxes; The Banker Took The Land. Then The Bank Failed.

I Came Out Of The Soviet Union No Longer A Communist, Because I Believed In Personal Freedom.

Anyone Who Says That Economic Security Is A Human Right, Has Been To Much Babied. While He Babbles, Other Men Are Risking And Losing Their Lives To Protect Him. They Are Fighting The Sea, Fighting The Land, Fighting Disease And Insects And Weather And Space And Time, For Him, While He Chatters That All Men Have A Right To Security And That Some Pagan God—society, The State, The Government, The Commune—must Give It To Them. Let The Fighting Men Stop Fighting This Inhuman Earth For One Hour, And He Will Learn How Much Security There Is.