It's All Very Well To Tell Us

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

Loyal? As Loyal As Anyone Who Plays Second Fiddle Ever Is.

If There Were No Girls Like Them In The World, There Would Be No Poetry

Merely Having Seen The Season Change In A Country Gave One The Sense Of Having Been There For A Long Time.

Writing Ought Either To Be The Manufacture Of Stories For Which There Is A Market Demand - A Business As Safe And Commendable As Making Soap Or Breakfast Foods - Or It Should Be An Art, Which Is Always A Search For Something For Which There Is No Market Demand, Something New And Untried, Where The Values Are Intrinsic And Have Nothing To Do With Standardized Values.