It Kills Your Writing If You Try

Add There Was That Moment When My Mother And Father Walked In The Door Disguised As Old People. I Thought The Miles In The Car Had Bent Them, Dulled Their Eyes, Even Grayed And Whitened Their Hair And Caused Their Hands And Voices To Tremble. At The Same Time, I Found, As I Rose Form The Chair, I'd Gotten Old Along With Them.

We Are Never So Poor That We Cannot Bless Another Human Being, Are We? So It Is That Every Evil, Whether Moral Or Material, Results In Good. You'll See.

Freedom, I Found Is Not Only In The Running But In The Heart, The Mind, The Hands.

Here I Am, Where I Ought To Be. A Writer Must Have A Place Where He Or She Feels This, The Place To Love And Be Irritated With.

There Are People Who Are Always, I Think, Going To Remain People Of The Book, To Use Another Author's Title, But People Of The Book, Who Really Must Be Around.