I Don't Think I Write Well -

Still, Vicious Or Virtuous, Love Suits Most Of Us.

A Writer Can Have Only One Language, If Language Is Going To Mean Anything To Him.

Spring, Of All Seasons Most Gratuitous, Is Fold Of Untaught Flower, Is Race Of Water, Is Earth's Most Multiple, Excited Daughter; And Those She Has Least Use For See Her Best, Their Paths Grown Craven And Circuitous, Their Visions Mountain-clear, Their Needs Immodest.

So Many Things I Had Thought Forgotten Return To My Mind With Stranger Pain: Like Letters That Arrive Addressed To Someone Who Left The House So Many Years Ago.

I Don't Think I Write Well - Just Better Than Anyone Else.