To Set Sail Somewhere Is More Important

Write A Little Every Day, Without Hope, Without Despair.

The Air Was Cold To The Lungs, The Long Grass Dripping Wet, And The Herbs On It Gave Out Their Spiced Astringent Scent. In A Little While On All Sides The Cicada Would Begin To Sing. The Grass Was Me , And The Air, The Distant Invisible Mountains Were Me, The Tired Oxen Were Me. I Breathed With The Slight Night-wind In The Thorn Trees.

I Start With A Tingle, A Kind Of Feeling Of The Story I Will Write. Then Come The Characters, And They Take Over, They Make The Story.

Love, With Very Young People, Is A Heartless Business. We Drink At That Age From Thirst, Or To Get Drunk; It Is Only Later In Life That We Occupy Ourselves With The Individuality Of Our Wine.

I Have A Feeling That Wherever I May Be In The Future, I Will Be Wondering Whether There Is Rain At Ngong.