In Fact, Isn't It A Joy -

I Think I Hate Snow, Downright Hate It. There Is Something Stupefying In It, A Kind Of 'you Must Be Worse Before You're Better,' And Down It Spins.

How Hard It Is To Escape From Places. However Carefully One Goes They Hold You — You Leave Little Bits Of Yourself Fluttering On The Fences — Like Rags And Shreds Of Your Very Life.

Do You Remember Your Childhood? I Am Always Coming Across These Marvelous Accounts By Writers Who Declare That They Remember 'everything.' I Certainly Don't. The Dark Stretches, The Blanks, Are Much Bigger Than The Bright Glimpses. I Seem To Have Spent Most Of My Time Like A Plant In A Cupboard.

Wind Moving Through Grass So That The Grass Quivers. This Moves Me With An Emotion I Don't Even Understand.

Warm, Eager, Living Life-to Be Rooted In Life-to Learn, To Desire, To Know, To Feel, To Think, To Act. This Is What I Want. And Nothing Less. That Is What I Must Try For.