If The Writer Does Not Cry, The

An Idea Comes As Near To Something For Nothing As You Can Get.

Hope Is Not Found In A Way Out But A Way Through.

I Wonder About The Trees. Why Do We Wish To Bear Forever The Noise Of These More Than Another Noise So Close To Our Dwelling Place?

The Hurt Is Not Enough: I Long For Weight And Strength. To Feel The Earth As Rough To All My Length

How Are We To Write The Russian Novel In America As Long As Life Goes So Unterribly?