What One Does In One's Art, That

She Herself Had Never Been Able To Be Altogether Herself: It Had Been Denied Her.

You're Always Begging Things To Love You," He Said, "as If You Were A Beggar For Love. Even The Flowers, You Have To Fawn On Them--

The Elephant, The Huge Old Beast, Is Slow To Mate

America Exhausts The Springs Of One's Soul - I Suppose That's What It Exists For. It Lives To See All Real Spontaneity Expire. But Anyhow It Doesn't Grind On An Old Nerve As Europe Seems To.

Only In A Novel Are All Things Given Full Play.