The Memory Of Cumshewa Is Of A

What A Splendid Time Woo Must Have Had.

Look At The Earth Crowded With Growth, New And Old Bursting From Their Strong Roots Hidden In The Silent, Live Ground, Each Seed According To Its Own Kind...each One Knowing What To Do, Each One Demanding Its Own Rights On The Earth. So Artist, You Too From The Depths Of Your Soul...let Your Roots Creep Forth, Gaining Strength.

I Am Always Watching For Fear Of Getting Feeble And Passé In My Work. I Don't Want To Trickle Out. I Want To Pour Till The Pail Is Empty, The Last Bit Going Out In A Gush, Not In Drops.

Be Careful That You Do Not Write Or Paint Anything That Is Not Your Own, That You Don't Know In Your Own Soul.

Writing Is A Strong Easement For Perplexity. My Life Is A Map, Spread Out With All The Rivers And Hills Showing.