Once The 'what' Is Decided, The 'how'

There Is An Alchemy In Sorrow. It Can Be Transmuted Into Wisdom, Which, If It Does Not Bring Joy, Can Yet Bring Happiness.

Praise Out Of Season, Or Tactlessly Bestowed, Can Freeze The Heart As Much As Blame.

The Test Of A Civilization Is In The Way That It Cares For Its Helpless Members

Iowans Know Themselves And What They Are Doing. They Are Doing Well.

Add To This Cruelly Delicate Organism The Overpowering Necessity To Create, Create, Create - So That Without The Creating Of Music Or Poetry Or Books Or Buildings Or Something Of Meaning, His Very Breath Is Cut Off From Him. He Must Create, Must Pour Out Creation. By Some Strange, Unknown, Inward Urgency He Is Not Really Alive Unless He Is Creating.