Were I More Conversant With Literature And

Do Not Forget, Some Give Little, And It Is Much For Them, Others Give All, And It Costs Them No Effort; Who Then Has Given Most?

The Whisper Of The Blood And The Pleading Of The Bone Marrow.

Rather Than Admire The Mediocre Great Men Over Whom Passersby Nudge Each Other In Awe, I Venerate The Young, Unknown Geniuses Who Die In Their Teens, Their Souls Shattered - Delicate, Phosphorescent Glowworms That One Must See To Know They Really Did Exist.

The Intelligent Poor Individual Was A Much Finer Observer Than The Intelligent Rich One. The Poor Individual Looks Around Him At Every Step, Listens Suspiciously To Every Word He Hears From The People He Meets; Thus, Every Step He Takes Presents A Problem, A Task, For His Thoughts And Feelings. He Is Alert And Sensitive, He Is Experienced, His Soul Has Been Burned.

A Word Can Be Transformed Into A Coulour, Light, A Smell; It Is The Writer's Task To Use It In Such A Way That It Serves, Never Fails, Can Never Be Ignored.