Love Is Every Bit As Violent And

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

A Word Can Be Transformed Into A Coulour, Light, A Smell; It Is The Writer's Task To Use It In Such A Way That It Serves, Never Fails, Can Never Be Ignored.

The Intelligent Poor Individual Was A Much Finer Observer Than The Intelligent Rich One. The Poor Individual Looks Around Him At Every Step, Listens Suspiciously To Every Word He Hears From The People He Meets; Thus, Every Step He Takes Presents A Problem, A Task, For His Thoughts And Feelings. He Is Alert And Sensitive, He Is Experienced, His Soul Has Been Burned.

I Stood In The Lee Of An Overhanging Rock And Thought Of Many Things.

And Love Was Creation's Source,creation's Ruler; But All Love's Ways Are Strewn With Blossoms And Blood, Blossoms And Blood.