It Is A Peculiar Part Of The

By Some Chance, Here They Are, All On This Earth; And Who Shall Ever Tell The Sorrow Of Being On This Earth, Lying, On Quilts, On The Grass In A Summer Evening, Among The Sounds Of The Night. May God Bless My People, My Uncle, My Aunt, My Mother, My Good Father, Oh, Remember Them Kindly In Their Time Of Trouble; And In The Hour Of Their Taking Away.

I'm Very Anxious Not To Fall Into Archaism Or 'literary' Diction. I Want My Vocabulary To Have A Very Large Range, But The Words Must Be Alive.

Isn’t Every Human Being Both A Scientist And An Artist; And In Writing Of Human Experience, Isn’t There A Good Deal To Be Said For Recognizing That Fact And For Using Both Methods?

The Camera Seems To Me, Next To Unassisted And Weaponless Consciousness, The Central Instrument Of Our Time.

When He Ran From A Cop, His Transitions From Accelerating Walk To Easy Jog Trot To Brisk Canter To Headlong Gallop To Flogged-piston Sprint . . . Were As Distinct And As Soberly In Order As An Automatic Gearshift.