Perhaps To Lose A Sense Of Where

When I Discover Who I Am, I'll Be Free.

The End Is In The Beginning And Lies Far Ahead.

I Suspect That All The Agony That Goes Into Writing Is Borne Precisely Because The Writer Longs For Acceptance-but It Must Be Acceptance On His Own Terms.

And While The Ice Was Melting To Form A Flood In Which I Threatened To Drown I Awoke One Afternoon To Find That My First Northern Winter Had Set.

We Don't All Dig Shakespeare Uniformly, Or Even 'little Red Riding Hood.' The Understanding Of Art Depends Finally Upon One's Willingness To Extend One's Humanity And One's Knowledge Of Human Life.