Letters Are The Real Curse Of My

How Hard It Is To Escape From Places. However Carefully One Goes They Hold You — You Leave Little Bits Of Yourself Fluttering On The Fences — Like Rags And Shreds Of Your Very Life.

Conversation Is Like A Dear Little Baby That Is Brought In To Be Handed Round. You Must Rock It, Nurse It, Keep It On The Move If You Want It To Keep Smiling.

The Late Evening Is The Time Of Times. Then With That Unearthly Beauty Before One It Is Not Hard To Realise How Far One Has To Go. To Write Something That Will Be Worthy Of That Rising Moon, That Pale Light.

Warm, Eager, Living Life-to Be Rooted In Life-to Learn, To Desire, To Know, To Feel, To Think, To Act. This Is What I Want. And Nothing Less. That Is What I Must Try For.

Who Is To Decide Between 'let It Be' And 'force It'?