The Writer Must Hew The

Doctors, By God; Washing Their Hands, Looking Out Windows, Fiddling With Dreadful Things While You Are Stretched Out On A Table Or Half Undressed On A Chair.

Wherever You Look There’s Meanness And Corruption. This Room, This Bottle Of Grape Wine, These Fruits In The Basket, Are All Products Of Profit And Loss. A Fellow Can’t Live Without Giving His Passive Acceptance To Meanness. Somebody Wears His Tail To A Frazzle For Every Mouthful We Eat And Every Stitch We Wear—and Nobody Seems To Know. Everybody Is Blind, Dumb, And Blunt-headed—stupid And Mean.

The Writer Must Hew The Phantom Rock.

In His Face There Came To Be A Brooding Peace That Is Seen Most Often In The Faces Of The Very Sorrowful Or The Very Wise. But Still He Wandered Through The Streets Of The Town, Always Silent And Alone.

We Are Homesick Most For The Places We Have Never Known.