I Do Like Italian Graves; They Look

For People Who Live On Expectations, To Face Up To Their Realization Is Something Of An Ordeal.

Where Would The Irish Be Without Someone To Be Irish At?

Illusions Are Art, For The Feeling Person, And It Is By Art That We Live, If We Do.

Only In A House Where One Has Learnt To Be Lonely Does One Have This Solicitude For Things. One's Relation To Them, The Daily Seeing Or Touching, Begins To Become Love, And To Lay One Open To Pain.

Often When I Write I Am Trying To Make Words Do The Work Of Line And Color. I Have The Painter's Sensitivity To Light. Much Of My Writing Is Verbal Painting.