The Truth Is Artistically Fallacious.

The Inferred Is Always More Effective Than The Obvious.

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.

Sorrow Was Like The Wind. It Came In Gusts.

A Woman Has Got To Love A Bad Man Once Or Twice In Her Life, To Be Thankful For A Good One.

Now, Having Left Cities Behind Me, Turned Away Forever From The Strange, Gregarious Huddling Of Men By Stones, I Find Those Various Great Towns I Knew Fused Into One, Burned Together In The Fire Of My Despising.