Winter Lies Too Long In

Your Vivid, Exciting Companionship In The Office Must Not Be Your Audience, You Must Find Your Own Quiet Center Of Life, And Write From That To The World.

In Little Towns, Lives Roll Along So Close To One Another; Loves And Hates Beat About, Their Wings Almost Touching.

Every Individual Taste, Every Natural Appetite, Was Bridled By Caution. The People Asleep In Those Houses, I Thought, Tried To Live Like The Mice In Their Own Kitchens; To Make No Noise, To Leave No Trace, To Slip Over The Surface Of Things In The Dark.

Ah! The Terror And The Delight Of That Moment When First We Fear Ourselves! Until Then We Have Not Lived.

People Live Through Such Pain Only Once. Pain Comes Again—but It Finds A Tougher Surface.