Our Loneliness Makes Us Avid

It's Incongruous That The Older We Get, The More Likely We Are To Turn In The Direction Of Religion. Less Vivid And Intense Ourselves, Closer To The Grave, We Begin To Conceive Of Ourselves As Immortal.

Poetry Is Engendered In Solitude, So What Better Meter For It Than The Clip Of A Buckskin Horse?

It Would Be Hard To Define Chaos Better Than As A World Where Children Decide They Don't Want To Live.

Henry David Thoreau, Who Never Earned Much Of A Living Or Sustained A Relationship With Any Woman That Wasn't Brotherly -- Who Lived Mostly Under His Parents' Roof . . . Who Advocated One Day's Work And Six Days "off" As The Weekly Round And Was Considered A Bit Of A Fool In His Hometown . . . Is Probably The American Writer Who Tells Us Best How To Live Comfortably With Our Most Constant Companion, Ourselves.

There Is A Time Of Life Somewhere Between The Sullen Fugues Of Adolescence And The Retrenchments Of Middle Age When Human Nature Becomes So Absolutely Absorbing One Wants To Be In The City Constantly, Even At The Height Of Summer.