It Is My Conviction That The Personality

It Is Not Death That Kills Us, But Life. We Are Done To Death By Life.

I Can Only Tell You That When Long Soul-searching And A Combination Of Circumstances Delivered Me Of My Last Prejudices, There Was An Exalted Sense Of Liberation. It Was Not The Negro Who Became Free, But I.

Sift Each Of Us Through The Great Sieve Of Circumstance And You Have A Residue, Great Or Small As The Case May Be, That Is The Man Or The Woman.

Hemingway, Damn His Soul, Makes Everything He Writes Terrifically Exciting (and Incidentally Makes All Us Second-raters Seem Positively Adolescent) By The Seemingly Simple Expedient Of The Iceberg Principle - Three-fourths Of The Substance Under The Surface. He Comes Closer That Way To Retaining The Magic Of The Original, Unexpressed Idea Or Emotion, Which Is Always More Stirring Than Any Words. But Just Try And Do It!

Men Had Reached Into The Scrub And Along Its Boundaries, Had Snatched What They Could Get And Had Gone Away, Uneasy In That Vast Indifferent Peace; For A Man Was Nothing, Crawling Ant-like Among The Myrtle Bushes Under The Pines. Now They Were Gone, It Was As Though They Had Never Been. The Silence Of The Scrub Was Primordial. The Wood-thrush Crying Across It Might Have Been The First Bird In The World-or The Last.