A Foreigner Is A Friend I Have

Add To This Cruelly Delicate Organism The Overpowering Necessity To Create, Create, Create - So That Without The Creating Of Music Or Poetry Or Books Or Buildings Or Something Of Meaning, His Very Breath Is Cut Off From Him. He Must Create, Must Pour Out Creation. By Some Strange, Unknown, Inward Urgency He Is Not Really Alive Unless He Is Creating.

To Know What One Can Have And To Do With It, Being Prepared For No More, Is The Basis Of Equilibrium.

A Woman's Mind Is Not An Instrument Apart From Her Other Being. She Does Not Separate Herself As Man Does, Now Flesh, Now Mind, Now Heart. She Is There As One, A Unity Complete And Unified.

To Know How To Do Something Well Is To Enjoy It.

There Is, Of Course, A Difference Between What One Seizes And What One Really Possesses.