Hope Costs Nothing.

I Love My Past, I Love My Present. I Am Not Ashamed Of What I Have Had, And I Am Not Sad Because I No Longer Have It.

By Means Of An Image We Are Often Able To Hold On To Our Lost Belongings. But It Is The Desperateness Of Losing Which Picks The Flowers Of Memory, Binds The Bouquet.

To Write Is To Pour One’s Innermost Self Passionately Upon The Tempting Paper, At Such Frantic Speed That Sometimes One’s Hand Struggles And Rebels, Overdriven By The Impatient God Which Guides It - And To Find, Next Day, In Place Of The Golden Bough That Bloomed Miraculously In That Dazzling Hour, A Withered Bramble And A Stunted Flower.

At Sixty-three Years Of Age, Less A Quarter, One Still Has Plans.

Don't Cudgel Your Brains Over My Little Problems.