If Youth Did Not Matter So Much

But She Still Had That Something Which Fires The Imagination, Could Still Stop One's Breath For A Moment By A Look Or Gesture That Somehow Revealed The Meaning In Common Things. She Had Only To Stand In The Orchard, To Put Her Hand On A Little Crab Tree And Look Up At The Apples, To Make You Feel The Goodness Of Planting And Tending And Harvesting At Last. All The Strong Things Of Her Heart Came Out In Her Body, That Had Been So Tireless In Serving Generous Emotions. It Was No Wonder That Her Sons Stood Tall And Straight. She Was A Rich Mine Of Life, Like The Founders Of Early Races.

I Don't Want Anyone Reading My Writing To Think About Style. I Just Want Them To Be In The Story.

One January Day, Thirty Years Ago, The Little Town Of Hanover, Anchored On A Windy Nebraska Tableland, Was Trying Not To Be Blown Away.

New Things Are Always Ugly.

A Burnt Dog Dreads The Fire.