Only The Few Know The Sweetness Of

From The Place By The Railing At The Edge Of The Tracks On The Summer Evening I Return Across The City To My Own Room. I Am Vividly Aware Of My Own Life That Escaped The Winter On The Boat. How Many Such Lives I Have Lived. Then I Only Made A Dollar And A Half A Day And Now I Sometimes Make More Than That In A Few Minutes. How Wonderful To Be Able To Write Words. ... Again I Begin The Endless Game Of Reconstructing My Own Life, Jerking It Out Of The Shell That Dies, Striving To Breathe Into It Beauty And Meaning. ... I Wonder Why My Life, Why All Lives, Are Not More Beautiful.

I Am Constantly Amazed At How Little Painters Know About Painting, Writers About Writing, Merchants About Business, Manufacturers About Manufacturing. Most Men Just Drift.

Sometimes I Think We Americans Are The Loneliest People In The World. To Be Sure, We Hunger For The Power Of Affection, The Self-acceptance That Gives Life. It Is The Oldest And Strongest Hunger In The World. But Hungering Is Not Enough.

People Who Have Few Possessions Cling Tightly To Those They Have. That Is One Of The Facts That Make Life So Discouraging.

I Think You Know That When An American Stays Away From New York Too Long Something Happens To Him. Perhaps He Becomes A Little Provincial, A Little Dead And Afraid.