Sometimes You Are Aware When Your Great

You Would Have To Be Very Optimistic To Think That Any Of Your Books Will Be Among The Books That Survive In The Very Long Run. I Think If A Writer Is Lucky Enough To Still Have A Few Books Around After He's Gone, A Few That Are Still Being Read, Then He's Accomplished Quite A Lot.

I Like Men Who Have Known The Best And The Worst, Whose Life Has Been Anything But A Smooth Trip. Storms Have Battered Them, They Have Lain, Sometimes For Months On End, Becalmed. There Is A Residue Even If They Fail. It Has Not Been All Tinkling; There Have Been Grand Chords.

Children Are Our Crop, Our Fields, Our Earth. They Are Birds Let Loose Into Darkness. They Are Errors Renewed. Still, They Are The Only Source From Which May Be Drawn A Life More Successful, More Knowing Than Our Own. Somehow They Will Do One Thing, Take One Step Further, They Will See The Summit. We Believe In It, The Radiance That Streams From The Future, From Days We Will Not See. Children Must Live, Must Triumph. Children Must Die; That Is An Idea We Cannot Accept.

We Dash The Black River, Its Flats Smooth As Stone. Not A Ship, Not A Dinghy, Not One Cry Of White. The Water Lies Broken, Cracked From The Wind. This Great Estuary Is Wide, Endless. The River Is Brackish, Blue With The Cold. It Passes Beneath Us Blurring. The Sea Birds Hang Above It, They Wheel, Disappear. We Flash The Wide River, A Dream Of The Past. The Deeps Fall Behind, The Bottom Is Paling The Surface, We Rush By The Shallows, Boats Beached For Winter, Desolate Piers. And On Wings Like The Gulls, Soar Up, Turn, Look Back.

I Am Afraid Of Him, Of All Men Who Are Successful In Love.