The Only Joy In The

In The Mental Disturbance And Effort Of Writing, What Sustains You Is The Certainty That On Every Page There Is Something Left Unsaid.

We Like To Have Work To Do, So As To Have The Right To Rest.

Because, To Despise Money, One Must Have Plenty Of It.

The World, The Future, Is Now Within You As Your Past, As Experience, Skill In Technique, And The Rich, Everlasting Mystery Is Found To Be Childish You That, At The Time, You Made No Effort To Possess.

One Stops Being A Child When One Realizes That Telling One's Trouble Does Not Make It Any Better.