It Is Only In The Heart That

But, Of Course Only Morons Would Ever Think Or Speak Of Themselves As Intellectuals. That's Why They All Look So Sad.

Spring, Which Germinated In The Earth, Moved Also With A Strange Restlessness, In The Hearts Of... Women. As The Weeks Passed, Inextinguishable Hope, Which Mounts With The Rising Sap, Looked From Their Faces.

As Far Back As I Remember, Long Before I Could Write, I Had Played At Making Stories. But Not Until I Was Seven Or More, Did I Begin To Pray Every Night, "o God, Let Me Write Books! Please, God, Let Me Write Books!"

Doesn't All Experience Crumble In The End To Mere Literary Material?

Nothing Is More Consuming, Or More Illogical, Than The Desire For Remembrance.