Writing Is Agony For Me. I Work

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.

Somewhere Beyond The Sink-hole, Past The Magnolia, Under The Live Oaks, A Boy And A Yearling Ran Side By Side, And Were Gone Forever.

When A Wave Of Love Takes Over A Human Being... Such An Exaltation Takes Him That He Knows He Has Put His Finger On The Pulse Of The Great Secret And The Great Answer.

Now, Having Left Cities Behind Me, Turned Away Forever From The Strange, Gregarious Huddling Of Men By Stones, I Find Those Various Great Towns I Knew Fused Into One, Burned Together In The Fire Of My Despising.

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