For The Record, Prejudices Can Kill, And

Now Death Is With Us In Such Abundance And Hovers Over Us In So Massive A Form That We Don't Have Time To Invent A Mythology, Nor Is Our Creativity Directed Toward Same. Now It's To Prevent Death.

For The Record, Prejudices Can Kill, And Suspicion Can Destroy, And A Thoughtless Frightened Search For A Scapegoat Has A Fallout All Its Own For The Children, And The Children Yet Unborn. And The Pity Of It Is That These Things Cannot Be Confined To The Twilight Zone.

When I Dig Back Through Memory Cells, I Get One Particularly Distinctive Feeling-and That's One Of Warmth, Comfort And Well-being. For Whatever Else I May Have Had, Or Lost, Or Will Find-i've Still Got A Hometown. This, Nobody's Gonna Take Away From Me.

Writers, Like Most Human Beings, Are Adaptable Creatures. They Can Learn To Accept Subordination Without Growing Fond Of It. No Writer Can Forever Stand In The Wings And Watch Other People Take The Curtain Calls While His Own Contributions Get Lost In The Shuffle.

A Word To The Wise To All The Children Of The Twentieth Century, Whether Their Concern Be Pediatrics Or Geriatrics, Whether They Crawl On Hands And Knees And Wear Diapers Or Walk With A Cane And Comb Their Beards. There's A Wondrous Magic To Christmas, And There's A Special Power Reserved For Little People. In Short, There's Nothing Mightier Than The Meek, And A Merry Christmas To Each And All.