A Good Novel Cannot Be Too Long

It Was A Perfect Spring Afternoon, And The Air Was Filled With Vague, Roving Scents, As If The Earth Exhaled The Sweetness Of Hidden Flowers.

To A Thrifty Theologian, Bent On Redemption With Economy, There Are Few Points Of Ethics Too Fine-spun For Splitting.

Violence Commands Both Literature And Life, And Violence Is Always Crude And Distorted.

. . . Every Tree Near Our House Had A Name Of Its Own And A Special Identity. This Was The Beginning Of My Love For Natural Things, For Earth And Sky, For Roads And Fields And Woods, For Trees And Grass And Flowers; A Love Which Has Been Second Only To My Sense Of Enduring Kinship With Birds And Animals, And All Inarticulate Creatures.

It Is Lovely, When I Forget All Birthdays, Including My Own, To Find That Somebody Remembers Me.