Nicknames Are Fond Names. We Do Not

I Don't Know What It Is That Makes A Writer Go To His Desk In His Shut-off Room Day After Day After Year After Year Unless It Is The Sure Knowledge That Not To Have Done The Daily Stint Of Writing That Day Is Infinitely More Agonizing Than To Write.

Wasn't Marriage, Like Life, Unstimulating And Unprofitable And Somewhat Empty When Too Well Ordered And Protected And Guarded. Wasn't It Finer, More Splendid, More Nourishing, When It Was, Like Life Itself, A Mixture Of The Sordid And The Magnificent; Of Mud And Stars; Of Earth And Flowers; Of Love And Hate And Laughter And Tears And Ugliness And Beauty And Hurt.

I Sometimes Wonder ... If The Land Is Not Destroying The People Who Inhabit It As The People Who Inhabit It Are Destroying The Land. A Magic Continent, A Peculiar Treasure, Stuffed With Riches, Millions In It Are Starving In The Midst Of Plenty.

A Closed Mind Is A Dying Mind.

Christmas Is Not A Season. It Is A Feeling.