Unless Their Use By Readers Bring Them

This Is The Gift All Writers Seek-to Write Language That Incandesces Yet Does Not Melt.

Books, Books, Books In All Their Aspects, In Form And Spirit, Their Physical Selves And What Reading Releases From Their Hieroglyphic Pages, In Their Sight And Smell, In Their Touch And Feel To The Questing Hand, And In The Intellectual Music Which They Sing To The Thoughtful Brain And Loving Heart, Books Are To Me The Best Of All Symbols, The Realest Of All Reality.

[a Writer] Must Try To Think Clearly, To Feel Deeply, To Write Honestly. If He Is Fortunate He Will Make A Living, But His Work Will Never Be Anymore Essentially Clear And Deep And Honest Than He Himself Is, And He Will Be Judged Finally Not For How Many Copies His Books Have Sold, But For What They Have Done To Enrich The Lives Of Their Readers, Now And In Time To Come.

We All Think Were Going To Be Great And We Feel A Little Bit Robbed When Our Expectation Aren't Met, But Sometimes Our Expectations Sell Us Short. Sometimes The Expected Simply Pales In Comparison To The Write To Be Understood, Speak To Be Heard, Read To Grow.

I Have Always Been Reconciled To The Fact That I Was Born A Bibliomaniac, Never Have I Sought A Cure, And My Dearest Friends Have Been Drawn From Those Likewise Suffering From Book Madness.