She Was A Sea: And I Had

Spring, If It Lingers More Than A Week Beyond Its Span, Starts To Hunger For Summer To End The Days Of Perpetual Promise. Summer In Its Turn Soon Begins To Sweat For Something To Quench Its Heat, And The Mellowest Of Autumns Will Tire Of Gentility At Last, And Ache For A Quick Sharp Frost To Kill Its Fruitfulness. Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

Perhaps A Wiser Eye Than Hers Would Be Able To Read Tomorrow In Tonight's Stars, But Where Was The Fun In That? It Was Better Not To Know. Better To Be Alive In The Here And The Now--in This Bright, Laughing Moment--and Let The Hours To Come Take Care Of Themselves.

There Are Lives Lived For Love, And Lives Lived For Art. We, Happy Band, Have Chosen The Later Persuasion.

I Think That Horror Fiction Is One Of The Ways To Approach These Problems Of Death.

I Don't Like To Make A Distinction Between The Writer And The Painter , Finally , Because I Do Both Things Anyway . Everybody's Dreaming And Trying To Put Down Their Dreams In The Way That Their Hand Knows Best . I Feel As Much A Unity , As Much Comradeship , With Painters As I Do Writers .