Autumn Arrives In The Early Morning.

Certain Books Come To Meet Me, As Do People.

Some Ideas, Like Dandelions In Lawns, Strike Tenaciously: You May Pull Off The Top But The Root Remains, Drives Down Suckers And May Even Sprout Again.

Habit Is Not Mere Subjugation, It Is A Tender Tie; When One Remembers Habit It Seems To Have Been Happiness.

The Writer, Like A Swimmer Caught By An Undertow, Is Borne In An Unexpected Direction. He Is Carried To A Subject Which Has Awaited Him--a Subject Sometimes No Part Of His Conscious Plan. Reality, The Reality Of Sensation, Has Accumulated Where It Was Least Sought. To Write Is To Be Captured--captured By Some Experience To Which One May Have Given Hardly A Thought.

Someone Soon To Start On A Journey Is Always A Little Holy.