What A Hideout: Holiness Lies

The Painter... Does Not Fit The Paints To The World. He Most Certainly Does Not Fit The World To Himself. He Fits Himself To The Paint. The Self Is The Servant Who Bears The Paintbox And Its Inherited Contents.

Our Life Is A Faint Tracing On The Surface Of Mystery.

The Courage Of Children And Beasts Is A Function Of Innocence.

The More You Read, The More You Will Write. The Better The Stuff You Read, The Better The Stuff You Will Write.

When You Write, You Lay Out A Line Of Words. The Line Of Words Is A Miner's Pick, A Wood Carver's Gouge, A Surgeon's Probe. You Wield It, And It Digs A Path You Follow. Soon You Find Yourself Deep In New Territory. Is It A Dead End, Or Have You Located The Real Subject? You Will Know Tomorrow, Or This Time Next Year.