[t]here Is No Greater Sign Of Innate

For Reasons Not Always At The Time Explicable, There Are Specific Occasions When Events Begin Suddenly To Take On A Significance Previously Unsuspected, So That, Before We Really Know Where We Are, Life Seems To Have Begun In Earnest At Last, And We Ourselves, Scarcely Aware That Any Change Has Taken Place, Are Careering Uncontrollably Down The Slippery Avenues Of Eternity.

I Was Impressed For The Ten Thousandth Time By The Fact That Literature Illuminates Life Only For Those To Whom Books Are A Necessity. Books Are Unconvertible Assets, To Be Passed On Only To Those Who Possess Them Already.

Writing Is A Combination Of Intangible Creative Fantasy And Appallingly Hard Work.

A Dance To The Music Of Time.

One Passes Through The World Knowing Few, If Any, Of The Important Things About Even The People With Whom One Has Been From Time To Time In The Closest Intimacy.