Art, It Seems To Me, Should Simplify.

The Emptiness Was Intense, Like The Stillness In A Great Factory When The Machinery Stops Running.

The Heart Of Another Is A Dark Forest, Always, No Matter How Close It Has Been To One's Own.

When Kindness Has Left People, Even For A Few Moments, We Become Afraid Of Them, As If Their Reason Had Left Them.

Thirty Or Forty Years Ago, In One Those Grey Towns Along The Burlington Railroad Which Are So Much Greyer To-day Than They Were Then, There Was A House Well Know From Omaha To Denver For Its Hospitality And For A Certain Charm Of Atmosphere.

Every Artist Knows That There Is No Such Thing As "freedom" In Art. The First Thing An Artist Does When He Begins A New Work Is To Lay Down The Barriers And Limitations; He Decides Upon A Certain Composition, A Certain Key, A Certain Relation Of Creatures Or Objects To Each Other. He Is Never Free, And The More Splendid His Imagination, The More Intense His Feeling, The Farther He Goes From General Truth And General Emotion.