The Writer Must Hew The Phantom Rock.

People Felt Themselves Watching Him Even Before They Knew That There Was Anything Different About Him. His Eyes Made A Person Think That He Heard Things That No One Else Had Ever Heard, That He Knew Things No One Had Ever Guessed Before. He Did Not Seem Quite Human.

The People Dreamed And Fought And Slept As Much As Ever. And By Habit They Shortened Their Thoughts So That They Would Not Wander Out Into The Darkness Beyond Tomorrow.

All Men Are Lonely. But Sometimes It Seems To Me That We Americans Are The Loneliest Of All. Our Hunger For Foreign Places And New Ways Has Been With Us Almost Like A National Disease. Our Literature Is Stamped With A Quality Of Longing And Unrest, And Our Writers Have Been Great Wanderers.

Imagination Takes Humility, Love And Great Courage.

But No Value Has Been Put On Human Life; It Is Given To Us Free And Taken Without Being Paid For. What Is It Worth? If You Look Around, At Times The Value May Seem To Be Little Or Nothing At All. Often After You Have Sweated And Tried And Things Are Not Better For You, There Comes A Feeling Deep Down In The Soul That You Are Not Worth Much.