He Is Careful Of What He Reads,

I Do Not So Much Write A Book As Sit Up With It, As A Dying Friend. I Hold Its Hand And Hope It Will Get Better.

I Cannot Cause Light; The Most I Can Do Is Try To Put Myself In The Path Of Its Beam.

The Secret Is Not To Write About What You Love Best, But About What You, Alone, Love At All.

But Enough Is Enough. One Turns At Last Even From Glory Itself With A Sigh Of Relief. From The Depths Of Mystery, And Even From The Heights Of Splendor, We Bounce Back And Hurry For The Latitudes Of Home.

We Still And Always Want Waking.