We Are Never Aware Of The Present;

The Prairies Were Dust. Day After Day, Summer After Summer, The Scorching Winds Blew The Dust And The Sun Was Brassy In A Yellow Sky. Crop After Crop Failed. Again And Again The Barren Land Must Be Mortgaged For Taxes And Food And Next Year's Seed. The Agony Of Hope Ended When There Was Not Harvest And No More Credit, No Money To Pay Interest And Taxes; The Banker Took The Land. Then The Bank Failed.

I Am Now A Fundamentalist American; Give Me Time And I Will Tell You Why Individualism, Laissez-faire And The Slightly Restrained Anarchy Of Capitalism Offer The Best Opportunities For The Development Of The Human Spirit.

Plants And Animals Repeat Routine, But Men Who Are Not Restrained Will Go Into The Future Like Explorers Into A New Country.

Writing Fiction Is An Endless And Always Defeated Effort To Capture Some Quality Of Life Without Killing It.

Our Quilts Were More Than Useful, They Had The Faint Sentimentality Of A Pressed Flower. And No More Beauty. We Did Not Value Them For Their Appearance, But For The Memories In Them, For Their Good Wearing Qualities And The Thrift They Represented.