Some Travelers Are Drawn Forward By A

I Start With A Tingle, A Kind Of Feeling Of The Story I Will Write. Then Come The Characters, And They Take Over, They Make The Story.

If I Know A Song Of Africa, Of The Giraffe And The African New Moon Lying On Her Back, Of The Plows In The Fields And The Sweaty Faces Of The Coffee Pickers, Does Africa Know A Song Of Me? Will The Air Over The Plain Quiver With A Color That I Have Had On, Or The Children Invent A Game In Which My Name Is, Or The Full Moon Throw A Shadow Over The Gravel Of The Drive That Was Like Me, Or Will The Eagles Of The Ngong Hills Look Out For Me?

A Giraffe Is So Much A Lady That One Refrains From Thinking Of Her Legs, But Remembers Her As Floating Over The Plains In Long Garb, Draperies Of Morning Mist Her Mirage.

Through All The World There Goes One Long Cry From The Heart Of The Artist: Give Me A Chance To Do My Best.

It Is Difficult To Restrain Admirers Of Shakespeare Once They Have Begun To Speak Of Him.