The Writer, An Old Man With A

Everyone Knows Of The Talking Artists. Throughout All Of The Known History Of The World They Have Gathered In Rooms And Talked. They Talk Of Art And Are Passionately,almost Feverishly, In Earnest About It. They Think It Matters Much More Than It Does.

Her Thoughts Ran Away To Her Girlhood With Its Passionate Longing For Adventure And She Remembered The Arms Of Men That Had Held Her When Adventure Was A Possible Thing For Her. Particularly She Remembered One Who Had For A Time Been Her Lover And Who In The Moment Of His Passion Had Cried Out To Her More Than A Hundred Times, Saying The Same Words Madly Over And Over: "you Dear! You Dear! You Lovely Dear!" The Words, She Thought, Expressed Something She Would Have Liked To Have Achieved In Life.

Learn To Draw. Try To Make Your Hand So Unconsciously Adept That It Will Put Down What You Feel Without Your Having To Think Of Your Hands. Then You Can Think Of The Thing Before You.

If I Can Write Everything Out Plainly, Perhaps I Will Myself Understand Better What Has Happened.

In Youth There Are Always Two Forces Fighting In People. The Warm Unthinking Little Animal Struggles Against The Thing That Reflects And Remembers