In 1957, I Decided: Write Or Perish.

Children Are Our Crop, Our Fields, Our Earth. They Are Birds Let Loose Into Darkness. They Are Errors Renewed. Still, They Are The Only Source From Which May Be Drawn A Life More Successful, More Knowing Than Our Own. Somehow They Will Do One Thing, Take One Step Further, They Will See The Summit. We Believe In It, The Radiance That Streams From The Future, From Days We Will Not See. Children Must Live, Must Triumph. Children Must Die; That Is An Idea We Cannot Accept.

It Is Always An Accident That Saves Us. It Is Someone We Have Never Seen.

There Comes A Time When You Realize That Everything Is A Dream, And Only Those Things Preserved In Writing Have Any Possibility Of Being Real.

Being Somebody: It's One Of The Ideas In Life, No? That's What My Father Made Clear To Me. The Importance Of Being Somebody. He Wanted To Be Somebody. And He Underlined To Me The Fate Of Trying To Be Somebody And Not Quite Managing To Do It.

A Light Snow, A Snow So Faint And Small-bodied That It Seems Nothing More Than A Manifestation Of The Cold.