Convention Was Our Safeguard: Could

We Are Minor In Everything But Our Passions.

Autumn Arrives In The Early Morning.

Autumn Arrives In Early Morning, But Spring At The Close Of A Winter Day.

One Can Suffer A Convulsion Of One's Entire Nature, And, Unless It Makes Some Noise, No One Notices. It's Not Just That We Are Incurious; We Completely Lack Any Sense Of Each Other's Existences.

The Writer, Like A Swimmer Caught By An Undertow, Is Borne In An Unexpected Direction. He Is Carried To A Subject Which Has Awaited Him--a Subject Sometimes No Part Of His Conscious Plan. Reality, The Reality Of Sensation, Has Accumulated Where It Was Least Sought. To Write Is To Be Captured--captured By Some Experience To Which One May Have Given Hardly A Thought.