But The More Poetry One Reads The

Ach, Tchekov! Why Are You Dead? Why Can’t I Talk To You In A Big Darkish Room At Late Evening—where The Light Is Green From The Waving Trees Outside? I’d Like To Write A Series Of Heavens: That Would Be One.

There Are Always These Moments In Life When The Limits Of Suffering Are Reached And We Become Heroes And Heroines.

What Happiness It Is To Listen To Rain At Night; Joyful Relief, Ease; A Lapping-round And Hushing And Brooding Tenderness, All Are Mingled Together In The Sound Of The Fast-falling Rain. God, Looking Down Upon The Rainy Earth, Sees How Faint Are These Lights Shining In Little Windows, - How Easily Put Out.

There Is No Feeling To Be Compared With The Feeling Of Having Written And Finished A Story.

You Might Drop Your Heart Into Me And You'd Never Hear It Touch Bottom.