Words Began Fights And Words Ended Them.

Readers Themselves, I Think, Contribute To A Book. They Add Their Own Imaginations, And It Is As Though The Writer Only Gave Them Something To Work On, And They Did The Rest.

Who Owns Cross Creek? The Red-birds, I Think, More Than I, For They Will Have Their Nests Even In The Face Of Delinquent Mortgages..it Seems To Me That The Earth May Be Borrowed, But Not Bought. It May Be Used, But Not Owned. It Gives Itself In Response To Love And Tending, Offers Its Sesonal Flowering And Fruiting. But We Are Tenants And Not Possessors, Lovers, And Not Masters. 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..."

It Seemed A Strange Thing To Him, When Earth Was Earth And Rain Was Rain, That Scrawny Pines Should Grow In The Scrub, While By Every Branch And Lake And River There Grew Magnolias. Dogs Were The Same Everywhere, And Oxen And Mules And Horses. But Trees Were Different In Different Places.

People In General Are Totally Unable To Detach The Personality Of A Writer From The Products Of His Thinking.

Now He Understood. This Was Death. Death Was A Silence That Gave Back No Answer.