O God, Let Me Write Books! Please,

Spring Was Running In A Thin Green Flame Over The Valley.

Preserve, Within A Wild Sanctuary, An Inaccessible Valley Of Reverie.

What Was Time Itself But The Bloom, The Sheath Enfolding Experience? Within Time, And With Time Alone, There Was Life - The Gleam, The Quiver, The Heartbeat, The Immeasurable Joy And Anguish Of Being.

The Older I Grow The More Earnestly I Feel That The Few Joys Of Childhood Are The Best That Life Has To Give.

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!"