Being An Old Maid Is Like Death

In New York The Sky Is Bluer, And The Grass Is Greener, And The Girls Are Prettier, And The Steaks Are Thicker, And The Buildings Are Higher, And The Streets Are Wider, And The Air Is Finer, Than The Sky, Or The Grass, Or The Girls, Or The Steaks, Or The Air Of Any Place Else In The World.

I Sat Staring Up At A Shelf In My Workroom From Which Thirty-one Books Identically Dressed In Neat Dark Green Leather Stared Back At Me With A Sort Of Cold Hostility Like Children Who Resent Their Parents. Don't Stare At Us Like That! They Said. Don't Blame Us If We Didn't Turn Out To Be The Perfection You Expected. We Didn't Ask To Be Brought Into The World.

Science Had Married The Wilderness And Was Taming The Savage Shrew.

A Stricken Tree, A Living Thing, So Beautiful, So Dignified, So Admirable In Its Potential Longevity, Is, Next To Man, Perhaps The Most Touching Of Wounded Objects.

Here In Texas Maybe We've Got Into The Habit Of Confusing Bigness With Greatness.