There Is No Stillness Like

We Wander, Question. But The Answer Waits In Each Separate Heart - The Answer Of Our Own Identity And The Way By Which We Can Master Loneliness And Feel That At Last We Belong.

The Dimensions Of A Work Of Art Are Seldom Realized By The Author Until The Work Is Accomplished. It Is Like A Flowering Dream. Ideas Grow, Budding Silently, And There Are A Thousand Illuminations Coming Day By Day As The Work Progresses. A Seed Grows In Writing As In Nature. The Seed Of The Idea Is Developed By Both Labor And The Unconscious, And The Struggle That Goes On Between Them.

The Most Fatal Thing A Man Can Do Is Try To Stand Alone.

... And We Are Not Alone In This Slavery. There Are Millions Of Others Throughout The World, Of All Colors And Races And Creeds. This We Must Remember. There Are Many Of Our People Who Hate The Poor Of The White Race, And They Hate Us. The People In This Town Living By The River Who Work In The Mills. People Who Are Almost As Much In Need As We Are Ourselves. This Hatred Is A Great Evil, And No Good Can Ever Come From It... The Injustice Of Need Must Bring Us All Together And Not Separate Us. We Must Remember That We All Make The Things Of This Earth Of Value Because Of Labor.

The Memories Of Childhood Have A Strange Shuttling Quality, And Areas Of Darkness Ring The Spaces Of Light. The Memories Of Childhood Are Like Clear Candles In An Acre Of Night, Illuminating Fixed Scenes From Surrounding Darkness.