From That House There Has Come So

The Truly Creative Mind In Any Field Is No More Than This: A Human Creature Born Abnormally, Inhumanly Sensitive. To Him... A Touch Is A Blow, A Sound Is A Noise, A Misfortune Is A Tragedy, A Joy Is An Ecstasy, A Friend Is A Lover, A Lover Is A God, And Failure Is Death.

I Am An Inveterate Homemaker, It Is At Once My Pleasure, My Recreation, And My Handicap. Were I A Man, My Books Would Have Been Written In Leisure, Protected By A Wife And A Secretary And Various Household Officials. As It Is, Being A Woman, My Work Has Had To Be Done Between Bouts Of Homemaking.

Music Is Not Technique And Melody, But The Meaning Of Life Itself, Infinitely Sorrowful And Unbearably Beautiful.

When We Know What We Want To Prove, We Go Out And Find Our Facts. They Are Always There.

Yet There Were Times When He Did Love Her With All The Kindness She Demanded, And How Was She To Know What Were Those Times? Alone She Raged Against His Cheerfulness And Put Herself At The Mercy Of Her Own Love And Longed To Be Free Of It Because It Made Her Less Than He And Dependent On Him. But How Could She Be Free Of Chains She Had Put Upon Herself? Her Soul Was All Tempest. The Dreams She Had Once Had Of Her Life Were Dead. She Was In Prison In The House. And Yet Who Was Her Jailer Except Herself?