When A Person Knows And Can't Make

His Own Life Seemed So Solitary, A Fragile Column Supporting Nothing Amidst The Wreckage Of The Years.

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter.

In His Face There Came To Be A Brooding Peace That Is Seen Most Often In The Faces Of The Very Sorrowful Or The Very Wise. But Still He Wandered Through The Streets Of The Town, Always Silent And Alone.

I Have More To Say Than Hemingway, And God Knows, I Say It Better Than Faulkner.

There Are The Lover And The Beloved, But These Two Come From Different Countries.