Cross Creek Belongs To The Wind And

Words Began Fights And Words Ended Them.

Here In Florida The Seasons Move In And Out Like Nuns In Soft Clothing, Making No Rustle In Their Passing.

I Have Found That Each Of My Books Has Developed Out Of Something I Have Written In A Previous Book. Some Thought Evidently Unfinished.

They Were All Too Tightly Bound Together, Men And Women, Creatures Wild And Tame, Flowers, Fruits And Leaves, To Ask That Any One Be Spared. As Long As The Whole Continued, The Earth Could Go About Its Business.

People In General Are Totally Unable To Detach The Personality Of A Writer From The Products Of His Thinking.