Words, Like Acts, Become Stale When They

But There Is, I Have Learned, No Permanent Escape From The Past. It May Be An Unrecognized Law Of Our Nature That We Should Be Drawn Back, Inevitably, To The Place Where We Have Suffered Most.

No One In The Modern World Is More Lonely Than The Writer With A Literary Conscience.

Theories Have Nothing To Do With Life.

But, Of Course Only Morons Would Ever Think Or Speak Of Themselves As Intellectuals. That's Why They All Look So Sad.

. . . Every Tree Near Our House Had A Name Of Its Own And A Special Identity. This Was The Beginning Of My Love For Natural Things, For Earth And Sky, For Roads And Fields And Woods, For Trees And Grass And Flowers; A Love Which Has Been Second Only To My Sense Of Enduring Kinship With Birds And Animals, And All Inarticulate Creatures.