What We Call Luck Is The Inner

Literary Critics, However, Frequently Suffer From A Curious Belief That Every Author Longs To Extend The Boundaries Of Literary Art, Wants To Explore New Dimensions Of The Human Spirit, And If He Doesn't, He Should Be Ashamed Of Himself.

All Mothers Think Their Children Are Oaks, But The World Never Lacks For Cabbages.

Oho, Now I Know What You Are. You Are An Advocate Of Useful Knowledge.... Well, Allow Me To Introduce Myself To You As An Advocate Of Ornamental Knowledge. You Like The Mind To Be A Neat Machine, Equipped To Work Efficiently, If Narrowly, And With No Extra Bits Or Useless Parts. I Like The Mind To Be A Dustbin Of Scraps Of Brilliant Fabric, Odd Gems, Worthless But Fascinating Curiosities, Tinsel, Quaint Bits Of Carving, And A Reasonable Amount Of Healthy Dirt. Shake The Machine And It Goes Out Of Order; Shake The Dustbin And It Adjusts Itself Beautifully To Its New Position.

That's The Nub Of The Thing, You See Seriousness Of Spirit. It Doesn't Mean Heaviness Of Heart, Or A Lack Of Fantasy, But It Does Mean An Awareness Of Influences That Touch Our Lives, Sometimes In Ways That Seem Cruel And Unfeeling, And Sometimes In Ways That Open Up A Glory Which Can Never Be Forgotten.

May I Make A Suggestion, Hoping It Is Not An Impertinence? Write It Down: Write Down What You Feel. It Is Sometimes A Wonderful Help In Misery.