The Test Of Beauty Is Whether It

Living Was No Longer The Grief Behind Him, But The Anxiety Ahead.

Writing Is Agony For Me. I Work At It Eight Hours Every Day, Hoping To Get Six Pages, But I Am Satisfied With Three.

Who Owns Cross Creek? The Red-birds, I Think, More Than I, For They Will Have Their Nests Even In The Face Of Delinquent Mortgages..it Seems To Me That The Earth May Be Borrowed, But Not Bought. It May Be Used, But Not Owned. It Gives Itself In Response To Love And Tending, Offers Its Sesonal Flowering And Fruiting. But We Are Tenants And Not Possessors, Lovers, And Not Masters. Cross Creek Belongs To The Wind And The Rain, To The Sun And The Seasons, To The Cosmic Secrecy Of Seed, And Beyond All, To Time..."

Now He Understood. This Was Death. Death Was A Silence That Gave Back No Answer.

Somewhere Beyond The Sink-hole, Past The Magnolia, Under The Live Oaks, A Boy And A Yearling Ran Side By Side, And Were Gone Forever.