You're Beautiful, Like A May

I Hate A Cramp, He Thought. It Is A Treachery Of One's Own Body.

How Simple The Writing Of Literature Would Be If It Were Only Necessary To Write In Another Way What Has Been Well Written. It Is Because We Have Had Such Great Writers In The Past That A Writer Is Driven Far Out Past Where He Can Go, Out To Where No One Can Help Him.

When I Had Finished The Book I Knew That No Matter What Scott Did, Nor How He Behaved, I Must Know It Was Like A Sickness And Be Of Any Help I Could To Him And Try To Be A Good Friend. He Had Many Good, Good Friends, More Than Anyone I Knew. But I Enlisted As One More, Whether I Could Be Of Any Use To Him Or Not. If He Could Write A Book As Fine As The Great Gatsby I Was Sure That He Could Write An Even Better One. I Did Not Know Zelda Yet, And So I Did Not Know The Terrible Odds That Were Against Him. But We Were To Find Them Out Soon Enough.

The Echoes Of Beauty You've Seen Transpire, Resound Through Dying Coals Of A Campfire.

A Writer's Problem Does Not Change. He Himself Changes And The World He Lives In Changes But His Problem Remains The Same. It Is Always How To Write Truly And Having Found What Is True, To Project It Is Such A Way That It Becomes A Part Of The Experience Of The Person Who Reads It.