There Was Nothing But Land; Not A

The Soul Cannot Be Humbled By Fasts And Prayer; It Must Be Broken By Mortal Sin To Experience Forgiveness Of Sin And Rise To A State Of Grace. Otherwise, Religion Is Nothing But Dead Logic.

How Terrible It Was To Love People When You Could Not Really Share Their Lives!

The "sayings" Of A Community, Its Proverbs, Are Its Characteristic Comment Upon Life; They Imply Its History, Suggest Its Attitude Toward The World And Its Way Of Accepting Life. Such An Idiom Makes The Finest Language Any Writer Can Have; And He Can Never Get It With A Notebook. He Himself Must Be Able To Think And Feel In That Speech - It Is A Gift From Heart To Heart.

But She Still Had That Something Which Fires The Imagination, Could Still Stop One's Breath For A Moment By A Look Or Gesture That Somehow Revealed The Meaning In Common Things. She Had Only To Stand In The Orchard, To Put Her Hand On A Little Crab Tree And Look Up At The Apples, To Make You Feel The Goodness Of Planting And Tending And Harvesting At Last. All The Strong Things Of Her Heart Came Out In Her Body, That Had Been So Tireless In Serving Generous Emotions. It Was No Wonder That Her Sons Stood Tall And Straight. She Was A Rich Mine Of Life, Like The Founders Of Early Races.

So Long As A Novelist Works Selfishly For The Pleasure Of Creating Character And Situation Corresponding To His Own Illusions, Ideals And Intuitions, He Will Always Produce Something Worth While And Natural. Directly He Takes Himself Too Seriously And Begins For The Alleged Benefit Of Humanity An Elaborate Dissection Of Complexes, He Evolves A Book That Is More Ridiculous And Tiresome Than The Most Conventional Cold Cream Girl Novel Of Yesterday.