You Know Being Born Is

There Was Always The Consolation That If I Didn't Like What I Wrote I Could Throw It Away Or Burn It.

If I Added To Their Pride Of America, I Am Happy.

Time Is A Sandpile We Run Our Fingers In.

His Books Were Part Of Him. Each Year Of His Life, It Seemed, His Books Became More And More A Part Of Him. This Room, Thirty By Twenty Feet, And The Walls Of Shelves Filled With Books, Had For Him The Murmuring Of Many Voices. In The Books Of Herodotus, Tacitus, Rabelais, Thomas Browne, John Milton, And Scores Of Others, He Had Found Men Of Face And Voice More Real To Him Than Many A Man He Had Met For A Smoke And A Talk.

After The Sunset On The Prairie, There Are Only The Stars