I Did Not Look For

A Happy Childhood Is Poor Preparation For Human Contacts.

Never Touch A Butterfly's Wing With Your Finger.

To Write Is To Pour One’s Innermost Self Passionately Upon The Tempting Paper, At Such Frantic Speed That Sometimes One’s Hand Struggles And Rebels, Overdriven By The Impatient God Which Guides It - And To Find, Next Day, In Place Of The Golden Bough That Bloomed Miraculously In That Dazzling Hour, A Withered Bramble And A Stunted Flower.

That Lovely Voice; How I Should Weep For Joy If I Could Hear It Now!

No One Asked You To Be Happy. Get To Work.