I Must Go Home Periodically To Renew

It Is A Curious Emotion, This Certain Homesickness I Have In Mind. With Americans, It Is A National Trait, As Native To Us As The Roller-coaster Or The Jukebox. It Is No Simple Longing For The Home Town Or Country Of Our Birth. The Emotion Is Janus-faced: We Are Torn Between A Nostalgia For The Familiar And An Urge For The Foreign And Strange. As Often As Not, We Are Homesick Most For The Places We Have Never Known.

Love Is The Bridge That Leads From The I Sense To The We, And There Is A Paradox About Personal Love. Love Of Another Individual Opens A New Relation Between The Personality And The World. The Lover Responds In A New Way To Nature And May Even Write Poetry. Love Is Affirmation; It Motivates The Yes Responses And The Sense Of Wider Communication. Love Casts Out Fear, And In The Security Of This Togetherness We Find Contentment, Courage. We No Longer Fear The Age-old Haunting Questions: "who Am I?" "why Am I?" "where Am I Going?" - And Having Cast Out Fear, We Can Be Honest And Charitable.

Next To Music Beer Was Best.

This Fear Is One Of The Horrors Of An Author's Life. Where Does Work Come From? What Chance, What Small Episode Will Start The Chain Of Creation? I Once Wrote A Story About A Writer Who Could Not Write Anymore, And My Friend Tennessee Williams Said, 'how Could You Dare Write That Story, It's The Most Frightening Work I Have Ever Read.' I Was Pretty Well Sunk While I Was Writing It.

The Dimensions Of A Work Of Art Are Seldom Realized By The Author Until The Work Is Accomplished. It Is Like A Flowering Dream. Ideas Grow, Budding Silently, And There Are A Thousand Illuminations Coming Day By Day As The Work Progresses. A Seed Grows In Writing As In Nature. The Seed Of The Idea Is Developed By Both Labor And The Unconscious, And The Struggle That Goes On Between Them.