Only A Woman, Divine, Could Know All

Give The People A New Word And They Think They Have A New Fact.

Sometimes A Neighbor Whom We Have Disliked A Lifetime For His Arrogance And Conceit Lets Fall A Single Commonplace Remark That Shows Us Another Side, Another Man, Really; A Man Uncertain, And Puzzled, And In The Dark Like Ourselves.

Some Memories Are Realities, And Are Better Than Anything That Can Ever Happen To One Again.

Art, It Seems To Me, Should Simplify Finding What Conventions Of Form And What Detail One Can Do Without And Yet Preserve The Spirit Of The Whole - So That All That One Has Suppressed And Cut Away Is There To The Reader's Consciousness As Much As If It Were In Type On The Page.

Artistic Growth Is, More Than It Is Anything Else, A Refining Of The Sense Of Truthfulness.