It May Be Life Is

I Go About Looking At Horses And Cattle. They Eat Grass, Make Love, Work When They Have To, Bear Their Young. I Am Sick With Envy Of Them.

The Father Spent His Time Talking And Thinking Of Religion. He Proclaimed Himself An Agnostic And Was So Absorbed In Destroying The Ideas Of God That Had Crept Into The Minds Of His Neighbors That He Never Saw God Manifesting Himself In The Little Child That, Half Forgotten, Lived Here And There On The Bounty Of Her Dead Mother's Relatives.

Interest In The Lives Of Others, The High Evaluation Of These Lives, What Are They But The Overflow Of The Interest A Man Finds In Himself, The Value He Attributes To His Own Being?.

What Is To Be Got At To Make The Air Sweet, The Ground Good Under The Feet, Can Only Be Got At By Failure, Trial, Again And Again And Again Failure.

My Father, A Ruined Dandy From The South, Had Been Reduced To Keeping A Small Harness-repair Shop And, When That Failed, He Became Ostensibly A House-and-barn Painter. However, He Did Not Call Himself A House-painter. The Idea Was Not Flashy Enough For Him. He Called Himself A "sign-writer.