I Think Best With A Pencil In

We Have So Little Faith In The Ebb And Flow Of Life, Of Love, Of Relationships. We Leap At The Flow Of Time And Resist In Terror Its Ebb. We Are Afraid It Will Never Return. We Insist On Permanency, On Duration, On Continuity; When The Only Continuity Possible In Life, As In Love, Is In Growth, In Fluidity - In Freedom.

Arranging A Bowl Of Flowers In The Morning Can Give A Sense Of Quiet In A Crowded Day - Like Writing A Poem Or Saying A Prayer.

What A Crippling Art Writing Is, No Body To It, No Craft, Really. It's All In The Mind And You Never See It Or Feel It -- Only Sometimes Hear It. It Uses Only Such A Small Part Of Man. I Wish I Were A Sculptor.

People Talk About Love As Though It Were Something You Could Give, Like An Armful Of Flowers. And A Lot Of People Give Love Like That -- Just Dump It Down On Top Of You, A Useless Strong-scented Burden.

The Ball Of Rumor And Criticism, Once It Starts Rolling, Is Difficult To Stop.