Living Was No Longer The Grief Behind

Now He Understood. This Was Death. Death Was A Silence That Gave Back No Answer.

Living Was No Longer The Grief Behind Him, But The Anxiety Ahead.

Readers Themselves, I Think, Contribute To A Book. They Add Their Own Imaginations, And It Is As Though The Writer Only Gave Them Something To Work On, And They Did The Rest.

It Is My Conviction That The Personality Of The Writer Has Nothing To Do With The Literate Product Of His Mind. And Publicity In This Case Embarrasses Me Because I Am Acutely Conscious Of How Far Short The Book Falls Of The Artistry I Am Struggling To Achieve. It's Like Being Caught Half-dressed.

I Had Done Battle With A Great Fear And The Victory Was Mine.