If He Does Go, The Change Will

Is Not The Real Experience Of Each Individual Very Limited? And, If A Writer Dwells Upon That Solely Or Principally, Is He Not In Danger Of Repeating Himself, And Also Of Becoming An Egotist? Then, Too, Imagination Is A Strong, Restless Faculty, Which Claims To Be Heard And Exercised: Are We To Be Quite Deaf To Her Cry, And Insensate To Her Struggles? When She Shows Us Bright Pictures, Are We Never To Look At Them, And Try To Reproduce Them? And When She Is Eloquent, And Speaks Rapidly And Urgently In Our Ear, Are We Not To Write To Her Dictation?

The Shadows Are As Important As The Light.

Children Can Feel, But They Cannot Analyse Their Feelings; And If The Analysis Is Partially Effected In Thought, They Know Not How To Express The Result Of The Process In Words.

But This I Know; The Writer Who Possesses The Creative Gift Owns Something Of Which He Is Not Always Master--something That At Times Strangely Wills And Works For Itself. He May Lay Down Rules And Devise Principles, And To Rules And Principles It Will Perhaps For Years Lie In Subjection; And Then, Haply Without Any Warning Of Revolt, There Comes A Time When It Will No Longer Consent.

I Have For The First Time Found What I Can Truly Love–i Have Found You. You Are My Sympathy–my Better Self–my Good Angel–i Am Bound To You With A Strong Attachment. I Think You Good, Gifted, Lovely: A Fervent, A Solemn Passion Is Conceived In My Heart; It Leans To You, Draws You To My Centre And Spring Of Life, Wrap My Existence About You–and, Kindling In Pure, Powerful Flame, Fuses You And Me In One.