It Is Easy To Pity When Once

The Only Thing Very Noticeable About Nebraska Was That It Was Still, All Day Long, Nebraska.

Whatever Is Felt Upon The Page Without Being Specifically Named There - That, One Might Say, Is Created. It Is The Inexplicable Presence Of The Thing Not Named, Of The Overtone Divined By The Ear But Not Heard By It, The Verbal Mood, The Emotional Aura Of The Fact Or The Thing Or The Deed, That Gives High Quality To The Novel Or The Drama, As Well As To Poetry Itself.

Every Fine Story Must Leave In The Mind Of The Sensitive Reader An Intangible Residuum Of Pleasure, A Cadence, A Quality Of Voice That Is Exclusively The Writer's Own, Individual, Unique.

Sometimes A Neighbor Whom We Have Disliked A Lifetime For His Arrogance And Conceit Lets Fall A Single Commonplace Remark That Shows Us Another Side, Another Man, Really; A Man Uncertain, And Puzzled, And In The Dark Like Ourselves.

Life Was So Short That It Meant Nothing At All Unless It Were Continually Reinforced By Something That Endured; Unless The Shadows Of Individual Existence Came And Went Against A Background That Held Together.