The Emptiness Was Intense, Like

The Soul Cannot Be Humbled By Fasts And Prayer; It Must Be Broken By Mortal Sin To Experience Forgiveness Of Sin And Rise To A State Of Grace. Otherwise, Religion Is Nothing But Dead Logic.

This Land Was An Enigma. It Was Like A Horse That No One Knows How To Break To Harness, That Runs Wild And Kicks Things To Pieces.

I Like Trees Because They Seem More Resigned To The Way They Have To Live Than Other Things Do. I Feel As If This Tree Knows Everything I Ever Think Of When I Sit Here. When I Come Back To It, I Never Have To Remind It Of Anything; I Begin Just Where I Left Off.

Many People Seem To Think That Art Is A Luxury To Be Imported And Tacked On To Life. Art Springs Out Of The Very Stuff That Life Is Made Of. Most Of Our Young Authors Start To Write A Story And Make A Few Observations From Nature To Add Local Color. The Results Are Invariably False And Hollow. Art Must Spring Out Of The Fullness And Richness Of Life.

The "sayings" Of A Community, Its Proverbs, Are Its Characteristic Comment Upon Life; They Imply Its History, Suggest Its Attitude Toward The World And Its Way Of Accepting Life. Such An Idiom Makes The Finest Language Any Writer Can Have; And He Can Never Get It With A Notebook. He Himself Must Be Able To Think And Feel In That Speech - It Is A Gift From Heart To Heart.