Do Not Forget, Some Give Little, And

The Heavy Red Roses Smoldering In The Foggy Morning, Blood-colored And Uninhibited, Made Me Greedy, And Tempted Me Powerfully To Steal One--i Asked The Prices Merely So I Could Come As Near Them As Possible.

The Whisper Of The Blood And The Pleading Of The Bone Marrow.

In Old Age We Are Like A Batch Of Letters That Someone Has Sent. We Are No Longer In The Past, We Have Arrived.

The Writer Must Be Able To Revel And Roll In The Abundance Of Words; He Must Know Not Only The Direct But Also The Secret Power Of A Word. There Are Overtones And Undertones To A Word, And Lateral Echoes, Too.

But What Really Matters Is Not What You Believe But The Faith And Conviction With Which You Believe.