Ants In The House Seem To Be,

I Do Not Understand How Anyone Can Live Without Some Small Place Of Enchantment To Turn To.

He Who Tries To Forget A Woman, Never Loved Her

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

Men Had Reached Into The Scrub And Along Its Boundaries, Had Snatched What They Could Get And Had Gone Away, Uneasy In That Vast Indifferent Peace; For A Man Was Nothing, Crawling Ant-like Among The Myrtle Bushes Under The Pines. Now They Were Gone, It Was As Though They Had Never Been. The Silence Of The Scrub Was Primordial. The Wood-thrush Crying Across It Might Have Been The First Bird In The World-or The Last.

Sift Each Of Us Through The Great Sieve Of Circumstance And You Have A Residue, Great Or Small As The Case May Be, That Is The Man Or The Woman.