Song, Like A Wing, Tears Through My

But Childhood Prolonged, Cannot Remain A Fairyland. It Becomes A Hell.

It Is Almost Impossible For The Poetess, Once Laurelled, To Take Off The Crown For Good Or To Reject Values And Taste Of Those Who Tender It.

The Fact, And The Intuition Or Logic About The Fact, Are Severe Coordinates In Fiction. In The Short Story They Must Cross With Hair-line Precision.

... How Much Of Our Inner Substance Is It Good For Us To Give To Public Griefs? The Whole Modern Tendency To Agonize Over The Suffering Of The Entire Globe Is Surely Something New.

The Terrible Beast, That No One May Understand, Came To My Side, And Put Down His Head In Love.