Rest Is Not A Word Of Free

His Books Were Part Of Him. Each Year Of His Life, It Seemed, His Books Became More And More A Part Of Him. This Room, Thirty By Twenty Feet, And The Walls Of Shelves Filled With Books, Had For Him The Murmuring Of Many Voices. In The Books Of Herodotus, Tacitus, Rabelais, Thomas Browne, John Milton, And Scores Of Others, He Had Found Men Of Face And Voice More Real To Him Than Many A Man He Had Met For A Smoke And A Talk.

There Was Always The Consolation That If I Didn't Like What I Wrote I Could Throw It Away Or Burn It.

I Asked The Professors Who Teach The Meaning Of Life To Tell Me What Is Happiness. And I Went To Famous Executives Who Boss The Work Of Thousands Of Men. They All Shook Their Heads And Gave Me A Smile As Though I Was Trying To Fool With Them. And Then One Sunday Afternoon I Wandered Out Along The Desplaines River And I Saw A Crowd Of Hungarians Under The Trees With Their Women And Children And A Keg Of Beer And An Accordion.

Corn Wind In The Fall, Come Off The Black Lands, Come Off The Whisper Of The Silk Hangers, The Lap Of The Flat Spear Leaves.

For We Know When A Nation Goes Down And Never Comes Back, When A Society Or A Civilization Perishes, One Condition May Always Be Found. They Forgot Where They Came From. They Lost Sight Of What Brought Them Along.