With One Day's Reading A

I Consider Criticism Merely A Preliminary Excitement, A Statement Of Things A Writer Has To Clear Up In His Own Head Sometime Or Other, Probably Antecedent To Writing; Of No Value Unless It Come To Fruit In The Created Work Later.

Somebody Said That I Am The Last American Living The Tragedy Of Europe.

What Thou Lovest Well Remains, The Rest Is Dross What Thou Lov’st Well Shall Not Be Reft From Thee What Thou Lov’st Well Is Thy True Heritage

The Worst Mistake I Made Was That Stupid, Suburban Prejudice Of Anti-semitism.

The Serious Artist Must Be As Open As Nature. Nature Does Not Give All Of Herself In A Paragraph. She Is Rugged And Not Set Apart Into Discreet Categories.