In The Woods Where Snow Is Thick,

I Want To Be All That I Am Capable Of Becoming.

I Want So To Live That I Work With My Hands And My Feeling And My Brain. I Want A Garden, A Small House, Grass, Animals, Books, Pictures, Music. And Out Of This, The Expression Of This, I Want To Be Writing (though I May Write About Cabmen. That’s No Matter.) But Warm, Eager, Living Life — To Be Rooted In Life — To Learn, To Desire, To Feel, To Think, To Act. This Is What I Want. And Nothing Less. That Is What I Must Try For.

Letters Are The Real Curse Of My Existence. I Hate To Write Them: I Have To. If I Don't, There They Are - The Great Guilty Gates Barring My Way.

The Ostrich Burying Its Head In The Sand Does At Any Rate Wish To Convey The Impression That Its Head Is The Most Important Part Of It.

I Must Say, I Hate Money. But It's The Lack Of It I Hate Most.