Somebody's Little Girl- How Easy It Is

Out Of Great Russia Came Three Dusky Syllables Workmen Took Guns And Went Out To Die For: Bread, Peace, Land.

Poetry Is A Shuffling Of Boxes Of Illusions Buckled With A Strap Of Facts.

All My Life I Have Been Trying To Learn, To Read, To See And Hear, And To Write. At Sixty-five I Began My First Novel And After The Five Years, Lacking A Month, I Took To Finish It, I Was Still Traveling, Still A Seeker.

I Couldn't See Myself Filling Some Definite Niche In What Is Called A Career. This Was All Misty.

In These Times You Have To Be An Optimist To Open Your Eyes When You Awake In The Morning.